


Dreaming Wide Awake: Redux

by thewaythatwerust



Series: Dreaming Wide Awake [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers Found Family, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Christmas Fluff, Drunken Flirting, Everyone lives in Stark Tower fic, Feelings Realization, Fluff, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Human Disaster Clint Barton, Humor, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Canon Compliant, Pining, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers Is a Good Bro, Temporary Amnesia, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:41:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21659950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewaythatwerust/pseuds/thewaythatwerust
Summary: The first time Bucky had laid eyes on Clint, he was rounding a van, playing delivery man, Lang as his cargo. Steve, Sam, and Wanda had been focused on Scott, but Bucky only had eyes for Barton. That powerful body confined in dark jeans and a black leather jacket drew his attention, but the easy grin and dry sense of humor had kept it. Watching him joust with Natasha, volley with Stark, and go toe to toe with T'Challa had increased Bucky's visceral appreciation of the archer. His brain recorded Clint's powerful movements on the field of battle, and every night since, his mind stripped Barton of weapons and clothes, and showcased those vigorous motions in very different, very carnal ways.--Or, "Dreaming Wide Awake" in Bucky's POV.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: Dreaming Wide Awake [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1611283
Comments: 65
Kudos: 151





	1. Drowning In You

**Author's Note:**

> i. ~~Rating and tags are for the overall/finished story, not as it stands now. But, it is subject to change ('cause I'm fickle and don't plan well). If you've read DWA then you know pretty much what to expect.~~  
>  ii. Unbeta'd. Read at your own risk.  
> iii. This being Bucky's POV is a lot less cracktastic than Clint's, but we shouldn't journey too far into Angst Town. Hopefully. At least now I have breadcrumbs to follow back.  
> iv. If you like it, feel free to leave a comment. I am unabashedly motivated by people leaving words on my words.

"What the hell have you done to yourself now?"

Bucky smiles at the exasperation clinging to Steve's every word. "That's usually _my_ line."

He twists, craning his neck to see his reflection in the bathroom mirror, compiling a mental damage report. His whole left side is one vast bruise: a dappled mix of angry reds and deep purples bleeding into his skin like he's a human paint palette. Maroon and Indigo, Steve would call them. A few nice sized gashes are weeping those same reds over his skin, looking brighter without their flesh prison. He takes a deep breath, letting it filter down and fill every fiber of his lungs, feeling the heavy ache of his ribs as tissue expands and presses against bone. His mind feeds the pain through a catalog of previous injuries until it finds a match. Bruised, not broken. Not too bad, all things considered.

Bucky relaxes his body, grabbing a cloth and running it under the faucet. He cleans the cuts efficiently, swiping the stains from his skin, ignoring the pain that slices through him. He tosses the cloth back into the sink, rinsing it, watching the water run pink.

"So?" Steve's sitting on Bucky's bed, watching him closely.

He pulls at the black waistband of his trunks, lifting it back up over his hip as he turns to Steve. "Traffic."

" _Buck_."

Bucky arranges his features in what he hopes will pass for a neutral expression. "No one taught Barton to look both ways before crossing the street. He didn't see the car headed straight for him."

"But you did."

He nods.

"And you put yourself between it and him?"

Bucky notches his head to the side and shrugs in a forced-casual way. "I'm already persona non grata with Fury. If one of the team died in my general vicinity with no witnesses, he'd probably put me back in cold storage." His words are light, but he can't stop the unsettling thread of truth twinging heavily in his gut.

Steve frowns. "You know that's not true."

Bucky grins. It's a decade-old muscle memory to cover doubt or fear when Steve's eyes are on him, and it's one he hasn’t been able to shake.

If Steve notices, he doesn't let it show. "Does he look as bad as you?"

The grin falters as Bucky's focus turns inward. An eidetic memory was an asset for a HYDRA asset. It was a skill borne through pain, and one that --as the memory of the accident replays before his open eyes, every moment in sharp focus-- delivers it, too.  
  


He watches, again, as Clint steps out onto the street, puddles jumping to evade the heavy boots propelling him forward, those blue eyes locked onto his own sending a shiver dancing along his spine. Bucky sees the flare of headlines speeding closer, and closer still as he springs into motion.

His body sparks with phantom pain, his brain recalling the sharp, shuddering force battering into his shoulder, the twisted steel wrapping around him, crushing into his flesh.

Clint's energy carries him forward into the car's path as it breaks like a wave around Bucky's body and drives him forward, Bucky's boots finding no purchase on the wet street. The momentum sends Clint glancing off the car, his body arcing through the air, and Bucky reaches out, fingers closing around Clint's shirt, halting his trajectory. The shirt stretches thin but holds, making Clint recoil harshly before crashing to the ground with a sickening crack, his foot twisting unnaturally, his head landing with a splashing thump on the asphalt.

Bucky registers the people gathering around them but his brain filters them out. His focus is honed sharply on Clint, eyes narrowing on the movement of his chest, ears straining to catch the sounds of Clint's breaths over the rain and growing crowd as Bucky gathers him up, lifting his head from the pooling water and laying it in his lap.

Bucky's hair hangs in a wet curtain around Clint's face. He sees his hand run through Clint's drenched hair, and hears his own voice echo in his head - soft pleas for Clint to open his eyes. Dark lashes lift, those blue eyes look up at him, struggling to find focus, eyelids fluttering rapidly before falling closed again.  
  


Bucky blinks himself back into the present and slumps onto the bed next to Steve. He gnaws on his lower lip, his gaze dropping to where his hands are twisting in his lap. Irrational panic rises in his throat at the thought of Clint not being okay. Feeling the weight of Steve's expectation settling on his shoulders, he shrugs both, the thrill of pain running through his damaged side a welcome distraction.

Steve's hand comes up to clamp over his shoulder. "I'm sure he'll be fine, Buck. A lot better than he would have been if you weren't there to intervene." Steve's fingers squeeze reassuringly. "It's okay to be worried. I know he means a lot to you."

Bucky's eyes snap to Steve's face. He bites back the impulse to deny it, his head dipping in a single nod instead.

Steve's phone vibrates in his pants, and the hand on Bucky's shoulder retracts, fishes the buzzing object free, and lifts it to his ear. Bucky listens to the conversation, his enhanced hearing affording him both sides of the conversation.

Natasha's voice rings through the phone. She's at the hospital visiting Clint. A broken ankle and a concussion, for which they are keeping him overnight for observation, just in case. Relief speeds through him, making him sag slightly, the tightness in his shoulders and chest easing.

After a short exchange, Steve ends the call with a jab of a button and turns back to Bucky.

"I told you he'd be fine."

Bucky nods as he shifts to his feet. "Always with the _I told you so_." A small smile tugs at his lips. "I'll get ready and meet you on the roof." He starts toward the closet.

Nat had given Steve a new mission briefing. Or, the highlights, anyway. The team in residence is to assemble on the Quinjet, stop at the hospital helipad, collect Nat, and she'd fill in the rest of the details.

Steve's silent pause is loud enough to make Bucky turn back to face him. He can see the gears grinding as Steve taps quickly over his phone screen. After a moment, he looks up, his energy cautious.

"I think you should sit this one out, Buck." Steve holds up his hand, forestalling Bucky's protests. "You're already injured, and it doesn't sound like it's an _all hands on deck_ situation anyway. You should rest up. Heal and be ready for the next one. There's always a _next one_."

"I'm _fine_ , Steve. We've all played hurt before. With much worse than this."

Steve nods. "I know, but right now, you don't _have_ to." He finally straightens and gives Bucky an odd look. "Barton is being released tomorrow. Nat will be with the team, so maybe you could pick him up? Keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn't land himself in intensive care? You know how he is."

Bucky’s eyes narrow on Steve. Captain America, playing dirty.

Steve smiles as if he can read Bucky's thoughts. "I know babysitting duty isn't really in the Avenging job description, but you'd be putting Nat's mind at ease. She's probably already read Barton the riot act, but it would help if you were here to enforce it. And it wouldn't be so bad, Buck. You can spend some time alone with him, comparing bruises, playing nursemaid..." Steve's lips twitch, that small-statured, giant pain in the ass from so long ago rising to the surface. "...or _doctor_."

Bucky pulls a face at Steve's self-satisfied smile. His cheek's are burning so bright it's bordering on uncomfortable. But his heartbeat picks up pace in his chest at the thought of spending time, actual honest-to-goodness one on one time, with Clint.

Steve notices Bucky wavering and offers one more guilt-appeasing push. "I promise if we need you, I'll call. You can come and save the day and toss me an I told you so while you're at it. Okay?"

"Steve…"

Steve's phone emits a sharp beep, and he looks down at the screen, smiling. "Besides, I've told Wanda if you get to the jet before I do, she's to hold you back until we clear the roof. If you're not gonna do the right thing for you, I'll do it for you." He nods like the matter is settled, and turns on his heel, heading for the door. "I'll see you when I get back, Buck. Try and get some sleep while I'm gone. You look like hell."

Bucky huffs as the door slides closed. He knows Steve isn't bluffing. And, Bucky rubs his hand over his eyes as he walks back to his bed, Steve isn't wrong about him needing sleep, either. He flops onto the bed, slipping his legs down between the crisp sheets, and pulls a spare pillow to his chest, curling his arm around it. These damned dreams of his were becoming a problem. They had started that day in Germany, after the clusterfuck at the airport, and hadn't stopped.  
  


The first time Bucky had laid eyes on Clint, he was rounding a van, playing delivery man, Lang as his cargo. Steve, Sam, and Wanda had been focused on Scott, but Bucky only had eyes for Barton. That powerful body confined in dark jeans and a black leather jacket drew his attention, but the easy grin and dry sense of humor had kept it. Watching him joust with Natasha, volley with Stark, and go toe to toe with T'Challa had increased Bucky's visceral appreciation of the archer. His brain recorded Clint's powerful movements on the field of battle, and every night since, his mind stripped Barton of weapons and clothes, and showcased those vigorous motions in very different, very carnal ways.  
  


Bucky shifts on the bed. His eyes fall closed as his breathing evens out, exhaustion pressing in on him. He knows better than to wish for a dreamless sleep, but as he drifts into unconsciousness, it's not golden skin slicked with sweat but a rain-soaked, broken body that bleeds through the blackness.


	2. You Will Consume Me But I Can't Walk Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Patients are discharged when the doctors do their rounds at ten,” the bored voice on the phone had told him early this morning. So, naturally, Bucky had arrived at nine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Possible Trigger Warning: a description of the car accident lives in the start of this chapter.

Bucky’s hands constrict around the steering wheel, his eyes focused on the side view mirror. Tension is coiling through his muscles, tightening them to the point of pain, strain shooting up his neck to his already aching head. Bucky disregards the sensory input, refusing to give in to the temptation to climb from the truck and start pacing. He holds his position and waits.

He’s been sitting in Sam’s old, blue truck, parked in a spot that affords him the best possible vantage point, watching the swarm of activity in front of the hospital for over an hour. “Patients are discharged when the doctors do their rounds at ten,” the bored voice on the phone had told him early this morning. So, naturally, Bucky had arrived at nine.

Now pushing ten thirty, his line of sight remains Barton-less.

His eyes are gritty. He rubs at them, one at a time, keeping one trained on the mirror, trying to scrub away the abrasive remnants of his nightmares.

The accident ran in a loop all night, the memory twisting in sleep. Bucky saw Clint running toward him, but each time the dream replayed, Bucky’s body became heavier, his movements sluggish. The distance between them stretched until Bucky had been frozen in place, watching as the car slammed into Clint, his broken body flying through the air. Hearing the sickening crack rise above the rain as Clint hit and skidded across the asphalt, the rain turning red around him. Crumpled, unmoving. Lifeless. 

The steering wheel groans under the crushing force of Bucky’s hands, and he lifts them, clenching and unclenching them around empty air as he struggles to steady his breathing. The images of what could have been fade slowly, retreating to the dark places in his mind that hold the untold horrors he wants so desperately to forget. 

Stretching his fingers flat, feeling the slight tremble, Bucky slides them under his thighs, trapping them between denim and the truck seat. He pulls in another calming breath through his nose. Technically speaking, he hadn’t asked to borrow Sam’s truck, so he probably should try his best not to break it before returning it.

An anomaly in movement pulls his focus back outward, to the hospital entrance. Parting like the Red Sea around Moses, he watches the crowd of people separate as a disheveled figure, propped up on crutches, wobbles his way forward, awkwardly. Bucky frowns. Clint looks like hell.

Sliding from the truck, Bucky rolls his shoulders, trying to dissipate the tension as he starts toward Clint. He’s three steps away when his mind blanks, causing his body to stall. Bucky sudden realizes he has no idea what to say to Clint now that he’s here. A strange sensation twists at the base of his spine. He’s never unprepared. Ever. Anticipation of outcome and planning are vital to mission success, and strategy is ingrained so deeply within him, it comes as natural as breathing. And yet, here he is, plan-less.

Lost in his thoughts, the feel of Clint barrelling headfirst into his chest catches him by surprise, and it takes him a second longer than it should to react.

Sweeping forward, Bucky extends his arms to wrap around Clint’s waist, halting his free fall to the ground, hearing the startled _oof_ as the wind escapes his lungs. The clattering of aluminum meeting ground sounds loudly beside them.

Eyes already wide in shock edge open further as recognition flickers brightly across the blue hues. They stay fixed on Bucky, notching his pulse higher, already racing at the feel of Clint’s body pressing against his, so much more substantial than his dreams could ever come close to capturing.

“ _Barnes?_ ”

Clint’s voice is a harsh croak, as if rusty from misuse, but Bucky can’t imagine he hasn’t been charming the pants off everyone that passed by his hospital bed in the last twelve hours. Bucky’s lips press together tightly. Bad choice of phrase.

Bucky clears his throat. “Are you alright?” He knows he should lift Clint back to his feet, but Bucky’s disinclined to break the first real contact he’s had, enjoying the warm heat of Clint’s body against him, the solid weight in his arms.

Below him, Clint’s head is nodding, but his mouth is opening and closing like a fish pulled from water, his eyes still wide, bordering on wild.

Bucky’s eyes narrow. Clint doesn’t _look_ okay. “Barton?”

Clint blinks rapidly as pink dances along his cheekbones. He nods again, a rough, jerky movement followed by a wince. “All good.”  
  
Without a plausible reason to keep Clint in his arms, Bucky reluctantly pulls him upright. Unable to break contact completely, Bucky tucks his hands around Clint’s waist, trapping the wrinkled shirt between warm skin and firm fingertips. For balance, he tells himself. 

Bucky can’t stave off the grin watching the pink of Clint’s cheeks bloom into a pretty, bright red. He notes Clint’s chest is rising and falling more rapidly than necessary, given his body is currently under no stress.

Bucky raises a questioning eyebrow. “You sure?”

Clint’s head moves in a jerky, unconvincing nod, and Bucky feels the shift of motion against his hands as Clint makes to step out of his grasp. He hears the sharp intake of breath as the cast presses on the ground, followed by dark grumbling that Bucky isn’t sure is intended for him, though he hears it just the same. Clint’s face is such a picture of forlorn frustration that Bucky can’t stop the laugh that builds in his chest from spilling over.

Clint blinks at him, blankly.

Bucky bends impulsively, shifting his hands to better balance Clint’s weight before lifting him into the air. Bucky bites back a smile at the squeak of surprise that flies from Clint’s mouth. Pulling him close, reveling in the hard body crushing against his, Bucky fights to keep his breathing even despite his racing heart. He's not sure what possessed him to manhandle Clint without so much as a " _may I?"_ but it would be stranger still to just set him back down. So he takes Clint’s weight easily, and carries him to the bench opposite the truck. Bucky sets Clint down and lets his hands slide from his prize, slowly.

Ignoring the feeling of loss, Bucky turns and retraces his steps, striding back to collect the crutches, guilt flickering in his belly. In any other situation, he would have grabbed his target with one hand and snatched the crutches with the other. The fact his training had been compromised by his instinct to protect Clint lands heavy in his belly, unsettling him. Not wanting to examine the reasons too carefully, he pushes the thought out of reach: a problem for another time.

Bucky can feel Clint’s eyes on him as he bends and retrieves the crutches, but when he turns and stalks back to the bench, the gaze slides away, retreating to the safety of the objects clutched in his hand. Pausing in front of the bench, casting a shadow over Clint, he can’t stop the edges of his mouth tipping up when Barton's eyes lift back to his, but when an odd look crosses Clint’s face and his gaze becomes unfocused, those corners tug down instead.

“Are you _really_ okay? The doctors _did_ discharge you, right? You didn’t leave AMA?”

Blue eyes remain unfocused, staring into space, making no indication of having heard Bucky’s questions.

“...Barton?”

Clint’s head snaps up, eyes blinking into focus.“Hmm? Yes? What? Sorry?”

“I asked if you’re sure you’re okay? You seem a little out of it.” _A little_ was a lot of an understatement. Bucky had half a mind to carry him back into the hospital and demand they run more tests.

“Oh, yeah. Never better. Sorry about, y’know, crashing into you back there. I’m kinda new to those.” Clint’s head jerks toward Bucky’s hand, to the crutches, before his face pinches tight, and he presses fingers to his temple until the tips turn white.

Bucky takes advantage of Clint’s distraction, licking his lips and steeling his shoulders. “Do you want a ride?”

“Uh…” Clint’s cheeks refresh their color.

“I’ve got Sam’s truck, and I’m heading to Stark’s anyway…” Bucky shifts his weight and runs his hand through his hair. This isn’t going to plan. at all. He didn’t expect to have to convince Barton to accept his help. “I mean... if you haven’t made other arrangements?”

Bucky follows the flush in Clint’s cheeks as it grows and burns down his neck, but a sharp movement draws his gaze back Clint’s mouth. Bucky swallows roughly as Clint’s lip disappears into his mouth, a flash of white pushing down on it.

With eyes locked onto the lip caught between teeth, warmth pools low in Bucky’s belly. “I promise I only bite when invited, and I floss regularly.” His attempt at humor falls flat and Bucky groans inwardly.

Clint’s tongue flicks out and swipe over the bright stain of red now weeping from his lip. Bucky grinds his teeth together, brows furrowing. Is he coming on too strong? Is Clint afraid of him? Of being alone with him? Confusion snatches his thoughts and spins them together in a whirlwind. Bucky has spent so much time dreaming of Clint, literally, he suddenly feels very, very stupid for expecting the reality to go the way of the fantasy. 

Clint’s soft words jolt Bucky from his mental hurricane. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

Bucky’s smile breaks free before he can stop it, fuelled in large part by relief. He bends again, letting his arm slip through the frame of the crutches before curling one hand over Clint’s back, the other sliding under Barton’s thighs, scooping him up.

Walking toward the truck at half his usual pace, trying to tell himself it is to avoid jostling Clint and hurting him, Bucky fights to keep the corners of his lips in their default position. Releasing Clint’s back, using his arm to brace it instead, Bucky opens the door and slides Clint carefully on to the seat. 

Taking hold of the buckle, Bucky slides the strap across Clint’s body, letting his curled fingers trail across Clint's warm chest. Bucky leans over him, pressing their bodies together as he clips the buckle into place, taking his time to straighten.

Bucky’s body is still tingling with awareness from the contact as he shuts the door and places the crutches, still dangling over his arm, into the truck bed. He strides to his door quickly, eager to put himself back in Clint’s general vicinity. Now he knows the reality of Clint's body against his, Bucky feels even more drawn to him, like he has some strange magnetic force that keeps pulling Bucky back. Climbing into the truck, he shuts the door carefully and buckles himself in. He presses the keys into the ignition and turns the engine over.

“ _Oh, fuck._ ”

Bucky’s hand stills as he swivels to Clint. “Barton?”

Clint’s chest is rising and falling rapidly again, and Bucky curls his hand into a fist, fighting his instinct to reach out and lay his fingers on Clint’s neck to check his pulse. “I -- uh, yeah, just, y’know, painkillers wearing off.”

Bucky watches as Clint jabs at the window down button. Repeatedly. Frustration rolling off him in waves. Steve’s voice rises in Bucky’s mind: t _he definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result._ Bucky’s words are carried over to Clint on a soft chuckle. “Yeah, that’s not gonna work. Blown fuse. It’s been on Sam’s _to fix_ list for awhile. I can turn on the air if you’re hot?”

A horn draws Bucky’s attention, and he turns, looking through the windscreen, scanning the traffic.

“I’m not hot, you are.”

Bucky’s body draws tight, his gaze locked outside the windscreen as he pulls the truck out into the flow of traffic. He’s mostly sure Clint didn’t mean to say that out loud, given the _deer in headlights_ look he can see in his peripheral vision before Clint turns his head away, resting it against the window.

Bucky knows it’s probably just a side effect of the head injury, but he lets his mind run take the thread of possibility and pull on it, just a little. The thought of Clint returning his interest makes his skin prickle. Bucky throws a look toward the passenger side window, trying to ascertain if Clint had noticed his reaction. Bucky presses a button on the dash, and air starts flooding into the cab, cooling his flushing skin. Bucky smiles softly to himself, _Steve is right, this isn't so bad, after all._


	3. You've Got My Head Spinning, I Don't Know Where To Go From Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "How to tell if a guy is flirting with you" is not something he learned in the Army, nor was it a HYDRA-sanctioned training module.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Betat'd by FestiveFerret. 💖

“Fuck.”

Bucky stalks through his bedroom door and heads for the closet. He grabs two split logs from the neat stack towering beside his boots, the rough texture in his hands a familiar balm to his stressed mind. 

Carrying the timber to the small woodfire stove Steve had installed before Bucky had come to live at the tower, he feels some of the tension start to uncoil from his taut muscles. Steve is the only one who understands the feeling of being a man out of time, of having everything you’d ever known and loved taken from you. Well, almost everything. 

Steve may have gotten bigger, his body now matching his heart, but he is the same scrappy punk from a lifetime ago. The same one Bucky would huddle with, waiting for his ma’s stove to burn warm enough to heat the pots of water, shivering bodies breathing in the heavy scent of smoke while fighting over who got the first bath.

Bucky suspects that’s the reason Steve had placed the stove here, a thread connecting him to a past forever out of reach, igniting a sense memory tied so intrinsically to feeling happy and safe and _home._

Propping the logs into place, Bucky lights the prepared kindling and flames flicker to life. He watches them dance for a long moment before closing the door and adjusting the damper control. He settles back on the floor, legs crossing like he’s back in Steve’s kitchen, rubbing his hands absently over his denim-clad knees. Bucky is grateful for Steve’s gift, and not just for the physical embodiment of happy memories. The fire helps keep the ice at bay. 

He knows it’s just a mental scar from being trapped so long in cryofreeze, a trick of his tortured mind enforced by his traitorous body, but Bucky is always cold. A lingering chill lives in his bones and in deep, dark places that he worries will never thaw. He draws a deep breath through his nose, the familiar scent of wood smoke calming his nerves.

The ritual soothes him, and he closes his eyes, the agitation from this morning draining away. Extending his arm behind him, he flattens his right hand into the carpet, leaning back against it. He lets his left fall into his lap, pressing the heel down onto the straining zipper of his jeans. Flames of another sort are licking through his blood, courtesy of an accident-prone archer a floor above him.

Bucky had felt the curious gaze on him for the entirety of the ride home, tracing over his face like Clint was trying to memorize every inch of his skin. To Bucky, used to blending into the background, to being a ghost, the attention had been almost unbearable. His skin prickled and his heart raced, and he’d started humming a song under his breath to give his mind something to focus on other than the fact that Clint was focusing on him. Though it didn’t help matters much, the song his brain had immediately called up was the one he associated so closely with the man sitting beside him. But he’d been unable to stop, his body pushing the sounds from his throat like he was building an auditory life preserver, one note at a time. One that crumbled around him as soon as he’d parked the truck.

His body had taken interest the moment he’d gathered Clint in his arms, but when Clint’s fingers had run over his skin and strong arms locked around his neck, Bucky's body had almost short-circuited in a very embarrassing way. Carrying Clint to his room, to his bed, had only made it worse. 

His new plan of attack, drafted as he’d gone to fetch the crutches, is to avoid Clint until he has a better plan of attack. 

But that's easier said than done. The complications are two fold. One, Clint is a teammate. Bucky doesn’t want to be too forward or overstep - if he miscalculates, it will affect not just him, but the team. The team that had welcomed him more warmly than he deserved, treated him like an asset and not _the_ asset. Bucky will not risk ruining that.

Problem number two, Clint is a guy, and Bucky has no idea how to read him. Previous encounters with men had always come when Bucky was sure of reciprocated interest, usually by waiting for them to make the first move. There was no guessing, no having to look for signs or decipher body language. _How to tell if a guy is flirting with you_ is not something he learned in the Army, nor was it a HYDRA-sanctioned training module.

Before he went into the freezer, most people didn’t dare speak about such things, even in hushed tones, but now there are apps and gay marriage. A lot has changed in the world since he’d been defrosted, but not his inability to tell the difference between friendly and flirty. 

Well, at least when it came to a guy’s intention. A dame’s attention was something he could spot easily - hair flicking, giggling, and soft smiles. Clint, however, doesn’t have hair to flick, doesn’t giggle, and there’s nothing soft about him. Bucky flushes at the image that last thought paints in his mind. His zipper digs into him a little more.

Flopping back on the floor, he pushes both hands down into the carpet, away from his aching body. Though he would love nothing better than to take himself in hand and release some pent up frustration --something he has a lot of experience with these days-- acting on desires ignited by reality feels somehow different than chasing lust borne from dreams.

The memory of Clint --on his bed looking up at him, heavy-lidded eyes and wet, parted lips that Bucky has seen stretched wide around him in slumber so many times-- tugs at his brain, scorching his skin. He groans. Listening to the crackling of fire devouring wood, Bucky suddenly feels very much like the maple being consumed mere feet away, though the flames eating him alive are courtesy of an oblivious wildfire with pretty, blue eyes and exceptional aim.

Bucky was wrong. Steve was wrong. Spending time alone with Clint isn’t going to be "not so bad", it’s going to kill him. 

. . .

The flames have long since died when Bucky peels himself off the carpet. He prys himself from the twin clutches of gravity and frustration, determination steeling his bones as he closes his door and strides toward the elevator. 

This thing, whatever it is, with Barton, is becoming a distraction. A problem that is clearly not going to resolve itself. Letting nature run its course is fine in theory, but in reality, nature seems to be taking the scenic route, and he doesn’t have time for that. 

Bucky jabs the up arrow, then folds his arms across his chest, formulating a new plan on the fly. Surely he can assess Clint’s level of interest without being obvious. He can prod gently around the edges and figure out if the strange behavior from this morning is just a symptom of Clint’s head injury, or if other body parts are involved. And if Clint gets weird about it, Bucky can say it’s all a misunderstanding and blame the concussion. A solid Plan B.

Stepping into the elevator, Bucky presses the button that will take him to the communal floor, deciding neutral ground gives better probability for mission success than giving Clint the home ground advantage by heading to his room. 

A moment later, he’s stepping out onto the second level of the spacious floor, moving to the stairs just as a loud crack echoes around the otherwise quiet room. The odds are already in his favor: Clint is here. Bucky should be able to keep a clear head and focus on the task at hand now that no further carrying is required.

Bucky stops at the top of the stairs. He sees Clint’s head drop onto the bar, another loud crack followed by an even louder, " _Fuck."_ Bucky doesn’t try and stop the grin that parts his lips. Clint is a one-man disaster zone. A human hurricane - one that Bucky somehow wandered into the path of. But he’s not going whirl around aimlessly, hoping for a soft landing.

Straightening his shoulders, Bucky starts down the stairs, eyes locked on his target. He can do this. Granted, he’s more adept at taking out a target than extracting information from one, but Natasha does it all the time without raising a sweat. How hard can it be?


	4. The World Was On Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A warm hand runs up Bucky’s neck, leaving a trail of burning nerves in its wake. It comes to rest under his chin, and pauses again. Bucky almost laughs at the small stops, taking them for what they are, an opportunity to tap out, to declare Clint the victor in this little game, the archer obviously unaware that Bucky is winning just by being a participant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Beta'd by FestiveFerret who gives the best grammatical ted talks. 10/10 recommend. [I tinkered after though, so all remaining errors are miiiiine.]
> 
> ii. Not gonna lie, this chapter may not make as much sense as it should if you haven't read DWA. I have done my best to hit the highlights and give an overreaching sense of what happened, but I didn't want to make you sit through all that dialogue again (who knew I wrote so much talky face bits? Oh, yeah. Everyone). Feel free to drop comments in the, uh, comment section if I lost you somewhere along the line in this one.

It _is_ hard, as it turns out. Very, very hard. As is he.

Storming from Clint’s room, Bucky doesn’t wait --can’t wait-- for the elevator. He pushes through the stairwell door and launches himself over the railing. He lands hard on the floor below, catching the lower handrail for support, cursing when it twists violently in his grip. He eyes the distorted metal as he shoulders through the door - Stark will just have to add it to his tab, along with the broken elevator button. He frowns as he strides to his room, deciding Stark can charge _Barton_ for it, since the damage is entirely the archer’s fault. On both counts.  
  
Bucky steps through his door quickly and leans back against it as he shoves one hand down the front of his jeans, no time to bother with zippers or undressing. Testing the already straining denim, he curls desperate fingers around himself, and after two strong squeezing strokes, he’s spilling, warm and wet, through his clenched fist. His knees buckle, and he lets his back dragging against the door slow his descent to the floor.

His head drops back with a _thump_ as he extricates his sticky hand from his pants, mentally berating himself for his lack of control. Bucky isn’t sure where the plan had fallen apart. Things had started off well enough. After lingering bodily contact and few suggestive comments --that were open to interpretation if Clint isn’t that way inclined-- Bucky felt like he had been getting somewhere. But then Clint had chased tequila with painkillers on top of a head injury, and things had fallen apart in spectacular fashion.  
  
Closing his eyes, waiting for his heartbeat to slow, he groans, remembering exactly where the night had gone off the rails. 

  
. . .  
  
  
"--'f you try t'pick me up 'thout askin' me 'gain, I swear t'god, Barnes--” Clint’s words are slow and thick, the alcohol making his tongue sluggish.

"You'll what? Fall on me again?” Bucky shakes his head, fingers pressing deeper into Clint’s waist. Clumsy at the best of times, Clint is downright dangerous to himself when drunk: he has nearly given himself another concussion courtesy of the bar top, almost choked on his beer, and toppled off his bar stool in less than an hour. And that is all Bucky has been around to bear witness to. God knows what he had done to himself before that.  
  
Clint’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. His head cocks to the side, his features shifting from annoyance to wonder.

"...'s your song."

"My song?" Bucky’s focus slips, his eyes settling on Clint’s gently parted lips, and the way his tongue slides between them.

"You were hummin'. S'mornin'..."

Clint closes his eyes and his whole body starts swaying, and Bucky tightens his grip reflexively. He didn't realize Clint had paid that much attention to his soft humming on the ride home from the hospital. Bucky grits his teeth, cursing his brain for choosing that particular song. His ears begin to burn as the seductive melody and too close for comfort lyrics wrap around them.

_\--- What a wicked game to play, to make me feel this way ---_

The song swells in the background just as Clint’s hands, a moment ago resting on Bucky’s, slide up his arms, coming to rest on his shoulders, Clint pressing into his space.  
  
Bucky may not have 20/20 vision when it comes to flirting --though he’s pretty sure Clint’s current actions qualify-- but he knows a dare when he sees one. Bucky’s eyes narrow slightly at the challenge shining brightly in Clint’s. He draws in a slow breath, and waits for Clint’s next move.

_\--- What a wicked thing to do, to let me dream of you ---_

A warm hand runs up Bucky’s neck, leaving a trail of burning nerves in its wake. It comes to rest under his chin, and pauses again. Bucky almost laughs at the small stops, taking them for what they are, an opportunity to tap out, to declare Clint the victor in this little game, the archer obviously unaware that Bucky is winning just by being a participant.

Clint’s finger traces across Bucky’s cheek before sliding over his lower lip, pressing down like he’s about to learn forward and replace his finger with his teeth, and Bucky throbs. He blows out a slow breath.. waiting, hoping. But the finger slides away, marking a wet trail down his chin.

_\--- The world was on fire, no one could save me but you ---_

Those wandering hands drift lower, bearing down under this jaw, and Bucky knows Clint can feel the erratic thumping of his heart. His pulse quickens further as Clint draws small, lazy circles over his skin. A flush sprouts under Clint’s fingers and blooms up into Bucky's cheeks.

_\--- Strange what desire will make foolish people do ---_

Clint’s fingers abandon his neck to tangle in his hair. A sharp tug bites at his scalp, and Bucky lets his head jerk back, his neck arching out, exposed. The elastic rips from his hair, releasing the captive strands to dance around his neck before Clint is reclaiming them in a tight fist.

_\--- I’d never dreamed that I’d love somebody like you ---_

Clint’s nuzzles at his neck. “Jesus, Barnes, y’smell so fuckin’ good,” Clint slurs, his hot breath flows over Bucky’s skin, chased a moment later by his tongue.

A moan sounds loud in his ears, and it takes a moment for Bucky to realize it’s coming from his mouth. Bucky reaches blindly for Clint’s hair, getting enough purchase on the short strands to pull Clint’s lips from his neck. The whimper that escapes Clint’s mouth is raw and needy and goes straight to Bucky’s cock, sending a fresh stream of precome soaking into his jeans.  
  
Bucky plants his hands on Clint’s waist and lifts him, bending him over his shoulder, putting Clint’s mouth very far away from any available skin. With Clint dangling upside down, Bucky holds little hope that they’ll make it to Clint’s room before the liquor he’s been throwing down his throat all night succumbs to the new gravitational pull and puts in another appearance. With the way his luck is going, he’ll probably get the worst of it. He groans inwardly as he stomps toward the elevator.  
  
He sends up a silent prayer of thanks when it opens immediately, grateful Clint’s room is only two floors away. Bucky does his best to bite back the desperate sound that rises in his throat as Clint starts grinding against him.  
  
Bucky is two steps out of the elevator when he shifts Clint, jolting him to a more familiar position, crushing him against his chest. His relief at the lack of grinding is short lived, when, taking advantage of his new position, Clint’s mouth clamps onto his neck.

“Fuck, _Clint_ .”  
  
Bucky grabs Clint’s hand and presses it against the scanner. He carries Clint over the threshold, and closes the distance to the bed in four strides, all but shoving Clint away from him, watching him fall and sink into the soft mattress.  
  
Clint blinks up at him, face contorted in confusion. “Barnes?”  
  
Hands reach up toward him, and Bucky steps backward, out of reach, keeping his own need just barely in check. His lungs are heaving, sucking oxygen into his blood and feeling it funnel immediately into his cock. His head is swimming.  
  
The quicker he takes care of Clint, the sooner he can take care of himself.  
  
Bending down, Bucky frees the button on Clint’s jeans, and tugs on the zipper but pauses, considering. He draws the flap of the denim aside, checking that Clint will still be decent when the jeans are gone. His resolve is already at a tipping point, and if faced with Clint, naked and hard and _wanting_ , he’s not entirely sure he’ll be able to walk away.  
  
Seeing a flash of black, Bucky breathes a sigh of relief and draws the zipper down the rest of the way. Clint rewards his efforts by grinding up against his hand and Bucky swears.

  
“Don’t make this harder than it already is.”  
  
“Mmm… don’ worry, this’s it. ‘f I get any harder Imma die.” Clint’s hips roll up again, seeking more friction. 

“Jesus. _Fuck_ .” Bucky is sure his lust is visibly leaking through his jeans at this point, but he can’t worry about that now. He rips Clint’s jeans, one clean split down each leg, and pulls the fabric free, letting it drop uselessly to the floor. He grips the hem of Clint’s shirt and tugs it up over his head harshly, Bucky’s patience quickly dwindling to naught.  
  
Clint struggles to his elbows, dark eyes raking over Bucky’s body. “Okay, Barnes, t’was supid hot. But yer wearin’ too many clothes, man. Gonna be hard t’fuck with yer pants on.”  
  
Bucky can feel the metal plates in his arm vibrating and shifting, constricting and expanding like they’re being rapidly cooled and heated. He rolls his arm, stretching out his fingers and curling them inward again, trying to relax the mechanical nerves. He uses his other arm to reach down and take hold of Clint’s blanket, tugging it up to hide the enticing expanse of flesh on display... on _offer_ .   
  
Bucky is turning away when Clint’s fingers wrap around his wrist.  
  
“Barnes?” The invitation rings clear through the confusion.  
  
“You _need_ to sleep.”  
  
“Fuck sleep. I _need_ you.”  
  
Bucky’s every nerve fires at once, an electric current surging through him, stretching his desire to the breaking point.  
  
“You’re in no condition to know what you want, Barton.” He pulls his hand from Clint’s fingers, feeling the burning imprint as he storms through Clint’s bedroom door.  
  


. . .  
  


Bucky forces his eyes open. He’s more than a little tempted to just sleep here, but he knows he’ll regret it later. Straightening on legs that are still a little unsteady, he heads to the bathroom, wanting to clean the spent lust from his skin as much as the lingering doubts that he has made the wrong choice in turning down the very thing he wants the most.  
  
  


Bucky tugs at the fabric of his hoodie where it clings to his still damp body. He grabs a pair of matching sweat pants and pulls them on, his mind only half on the job. The other half is, as usual, on Clint.  
  
The mission had suffered some casualties, not least of all Clint’s jeans, but it hadn’t been a total loss. If the bruise Clint had sucked into his neck is any indication, Bucky’s pretty confident that Clint has more than a passing interest in men, but Bucky isn’t sure if Clint’s interest in _him_ is just a case of him being the nearest warm body on offer. The _only_ warm body.  
  
Bucky pauses on his way out of the closet and turns back. He runs his hands over the neatly folded pile of sweatpants and impulsively traps a pair between his fingers. He lifts them, twisting the fabric his hands as his mind ticks over.  
  
Armed with a solid plan, a rarity lately, Bucky pivots, flicks the light off, and retraces his steps to the communal floor.  
  
  
  
Having retrieved the painkillers and a bottle of water from the bar, Bucky returns to Clint’s room, where a well-meaning, though measured, shove from his shoulder affords him unauthorized access.  
  
He is half-expecting some kind of alarm to sound, flashing lights and screeching sirens, or, at the very least, a stern reprimand from JARVIS, but nothing happens. He pushes the door open quietly and moves in the direction of the soft snores drifting over to him.  
  
Clint is going to feel like shit in the morning, though when the chemical contents of his stomach reach his brain, Bucky’s pretty sure Clint’s not going to remember why. He picks up Clint’s phone from the side table and places the pants in its space. He rests the bottle of water and phone on the fabric, pressing the orange pill bottle between the two as a buffer.  
  
He’s tempted to switch on the phone, let the cool blue light filter through the room to get a glimpse of Clint stretched out in bed, relaxed in sleep. Had Bucky said yes instead of no, he could be lying there, wrapped up in sleep and _Clint_ .  
  
Bucky drags his eyes from the dark, indistinct shape of temptation lying in the bed and heads to his own, each step heavy with regret.

  
  
  
Bucky reaches for the phone blindly, fingers dancing over unknown objects before they close around the familiar shape. He forces his sleep-heavy eyelids open and squints against the bright light.   
  
4:32am  
  
He frowns. His dreams have returned to their regularly scheduled programming, and he shivers, feeling the ghost of Clint’s mouth on him. They have lost some of their potency, though, Bucky realizes. Now knowing what Clint’s mouth actually feels like, at least on some parts of him, his dreams don’t come close.  
  
He taps at the screen with his index finger.

_Call me when you're up._

_Seriously, Barton._

_I am not going to carry you around if you fall and break your other ankle._  
  
Clicking the screen off, Bucky places the phone back beside his bed. He pulls the pillow tighter to his chest, and lets sleep’s determined fingers reach out and pull him back down into a world of perpetual pleasure… a world where he said yes.


	5. So You Just Sit Tight and Watch it Unwind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky had busied himself, doing his best to avoid the quicksand of his mind and its tendency to draw his thoughts in and pull them down to dark places. Clint is, in all likelihood, still asleep, drooling over his pillow. He’s not lying unconscious on the floor after having knocked himself out on the bedside table, and definitely not lying dead in bed after aspirating vomit. ...Probably. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Much love to FestiveFerret and Ashes0909 for cheerleading and letting me plunder their brains. Again. (Really, it's becoming a problem.)  
> ii. This one is one of those tricky chapters that has a lot of dialogue that can't really be cut out and have the story make sense. I tried to balance it with new scenes so it wasn't a direct rehash. It came out...less angsty than anticipated. Sorry, angst-fans!

The ear-splitting shriek of the smoke alarm, echoing around the communal floor, drags Bucky’s focus from the elevator and to the billowing smoke rising off the cooktop. He spits out a curse, and flesh fingers flick off the gas as their metal kin grab the offending pan, lifting it from the burner, then tosses it into the sink. A sizzling hiss of steam bursts upward as he hits the faucet, and the forgotten bacon, shriveled and charred, floats to the surface of its watery grave.

He stops the stream and scrubs a hand through his hair. Tired eyes look for the source of the high pitched siren and find naught.

“Uh, JARVIS?” Bucky had only limited interaction with the tower’s AI, but at a loss for an alternative course of action, he figures it’s worth a shot. “Any chance you can do something about the alarm, please?”

The alarm cuts off mid-wail. A familiar, disembodied voice breaks the ringing silence that follows. “Of course, Sergeant Barnes. Might I suggest use of the overhead exhaust fans in the future?”

Bucky half-grins, despite himself. Okay, so that is kind of cool. “Only if you call me Bucky in the future.”

“Of course. And Bucky, please don’t forget the eggs.”

Bucky turns at JARVIS’s prompting and flicks off the second burner. His shoulders fall as he looks down at the rubbery, grayish-colored eggs. Heat scorches through metal fingers again as he pulls the pan and props it atop the first in the sink. He sighs. So much for breakfast. Though at this rate --he glances at the clock on the wall-- it would have been more like brunch, anyway.

He wipes his hand on his pants before fishing his phone out of his pocket. Anticipation stiffens his shoulders as he brings the screen to life. They sag the moment he sees the conversation thread with Clint remains unchanged.   
  


A night of teasing _could have beens_ had crested a little after six this morning, and he’d woken with a mess on his skin, regrets in his head, and the overwhelming desire to see Barton. So he’d washed, changed, and headed to the common area, where he had waited for a text from Clint. One that never came. 

Bucky had busied himself, doing his best to avoid the quicksand of his mind and its tendency to draw his thoughts in and pull them down to dark places. Clint is, in all likelihood, still asleep, drooling over his pillow. He’s not lying unconscious on the floor after having knocked himself out on the bedside table, and definitely not lying dead in bed after aspirating vomit. ...Probably. 

  
His fingers tap out a rolling rhythm on his phone screen, distractedly. He resolves to give Clint thirty more minutes, but the slow hand of the clock has made no more than five steps before he is striding toward the elevator with purpose. 

  
Bucky frowns at the sight of the splintered wood around the lock of Clint’s room in the morning light. He’d had no compunction about it at the time, but now... He tugs his lower lip between his teeth as he raps his knuckles on the door. 

“Barton?”

Uneasiness spreads through him as his dark thoughts break free of their mental prison.

“Barton? Are you okay? Are you decent?” _...Are you alive?_

The dark thoughts grow in size and number and spread - riding the shock of cold stealing across his skin.

He’s probably being stupid, overreacting. Barton is just sleeping... unless he’s not. “I’m coming in, okay?”

Bucky pushes the door open slowly, waiting, hoping, for Clint’s voice to ring out and tell him to leave. The rejection will cut, though it is a wound he'll welcome eagerly just to know Barton is okay. But with his pounding heart the only noise reaching his ears, he peers around the door to the bed, his anxiety growing as his eyes fall on empty, rumpled sheets. 

Bucky is two steps into the room when he sees Clint lying motionless, face down on the floor. Goosebumps break out over his skin before being burned away as fear claims him, pressing in on him until the edge of his vision grows dark. 

Forcing his body to move, Bucky is on his knees beside Clint in a second, turning him over onto his back, gently. Bucky traps his breath in his chest, ears straining to find Clint’s, frustration boring through him when he’s unable to hear anything over the frantic pulse of his own blood. His teeth ache as his jaw welds shut, panic constricting his throat. He presses his ear to Clint’s body, and the cold hand of fear gripping him loosens, _slightly_ , at the strong beat of Clint’s heart, and the slow but steady rise of his chest.

Frenzied eyes dart over Clint’s body, checking for damage. There's a new bruise blooming on his temple, but otherwise, seems none the worse for wear. The sweatpants he left are bunched around Clint’s ankles, and he frowns as he tugs them up, his hands working on autopilot, not wanting Clint to be embarrassed when he wakes up. _If he wakes up._

He grips Clint’s shoulders and shakes him, the lingering tendrils of fear adding urgency to his actions. “Barton? BARTON! Jesus, Clint, open your eyes.”

The lax muscles of Clint’s face pinch tight. One eyelid flickers open before immediately snapping shut again. “Ow.”

Relief surges through him, muscles uncoiling, his burning lungs finally refilling. Bucky's arms still, but he can’t drag his fingers away, unwilling to break their connection. He forces his voice to remain even. “Can you open your eyes?”

“Can. Don’t want to. Too bright.”

Bucky hesitates before prying his fingers from Clint and pushing to his feet. He strides to the window and presses the button to draw the blinds. He’s back at Clint’s side before the bright sunlight has vanished from the room. 

Bucky's hands curl over Clint’s shoulders, and he runs his thumbs soothingly over the bare skin. “Try now.”

Clint’s eyelids pull up slowly, his eyes staring up without focus. Clint blinks rapidly before his eyelids fall down again, and stay. Clint’s body rocks on the carpet as Bucky’s hands resume their motions. Shaking is probably not the best method to rouse someone with a head injury, but it’s the only thing Bucky can think of at the moment. That and...

“Barton, open your eyes, or I’m calling an ambulance.”

After a moment, Clint complies, even as his face draws into a disgruntled scowl. 

Bucky is stuck on a see-saw of anxiety and relief, tipping from one to the other with each of Clint’s reactions... or lack thereof. “Hey, there you are. Can you look at me?” 

“Which one of you?” 

Bucky crashes back down to into anxiety as Clint’s unfocused eyes slide past his face.

Grabbing the phone from his pocket, Bucky starts pressing the digits onto the keypad display. _9-1-1_

“No hospital. ’m fine.”

Bucky tempers the urge to roll his eyes. “I’d say you’re pretty far from fine, Barton.” 

“You can call, but I’m just gonna refuse treatment. Then you’re gonna be left alone with me. A newly-concussed and very pissed me.” 

Bucky looks down at the screen, finger hovering over the icon that would connect the call. Clint is stringing words together enough to make threats, and his eyes are looking a little more focused. Bucky hesitates. 

“Look, put the phone away, and I’ll let you help me up. I promise if I see more than three of you, I’ll let you drive me to the hospital.”

Bucky considers a moment before nodding and slides his phone back into its fabric housing. “I’m holding you to that.” And if Barton reneges, Bucky is not above carrying him there. 

He lowers Clint’s head back down to the carpet, then moves to straddle Clint’s thighs. Ignoring the raised eyebrow, Bucky presses his hands to Clint’s body and lifts him a sitting position in one long, slow movement. Bucky's lips twist into a grimace as Clint leans forward and empties his stomach all over his shirt. Clint’s face flares with color as he slumps. Only Bucky’s hold keeps him from collapsing back to the floor.

“ _Fuck._ Yeah, I’m gonna go hang out with gravity for a few more minutes.”

The mental see-saw dips down again. He lowers Clint to the floor gingerly and looks down at his shirt. 

“Uh, sorry.” 

Bucky shrugs. “Don’t worry about it.” Of all the bodily fluids he has experience with, vomit is by far the most washable: it doesn’t stain like blood does. His eye catches on the overflowing hamper in the corner of the room, and he presses his lips together, holding back a smile. Of course Clint doesn’t use the laundry service like everyone else - that would be too convenient. Bucky grips the back of the neckband and pulls it over his head, sliding the shirt off in one smooth motion. He wipes his chest with the bunched fabric before tossing it onto the already overflowing pile.

“Jesus, Barnes. What the hell happened?” 

_Fuck_. Bucky tenses, remembering the shock of bruises decorating his left side. He snags a bright purple shirt peeking out from Clint’s dresser and pulls it on, the discomfort of the armbands pressing tightly into him is preferable to the displeasure of having to explain. He moves back to the floor, settling behind Clint. He crosses his legs and carefully lifts the archer’s head into his lap. 

“It doesn’t matter. Are you okay?”

“You need to stop asking me that.”

Bucky smiles down at him. “You need to stop doing things that make me _need_ to ask you that.”

Clint makes a vaguely affirmative noise before returning the smile, and Bucky’s breath catches in his throat. 

“S’okay, I broke my fall with my face.”

The breath bursts free in a soft chuckle.

“Y’know, out of the three times I’ve needed rescuing lately, two of those were caused by you, so they really don’t count.”

Bucky bites back the correction, guilt alighting his belly. _All_ the blame belonged squarely on his shoulders. Though he doesn't know why, Clint had been running to him when the car had struck him. If Bucky hadn’t been there, Clint wouldn’t have been hurt. And then, a small part of him whispers, Clint wouldn’t be here with him now. The guilt flares brighter, but Bucky smothers it down the best he can. “How is this one my fault?”

“Your stupid pants. Tripped me. They’re too big. Turns out thick thighs take lives.” Clint's grin grows, amused by his own joke. “Well, almost.”

Bucky’s lips emulate Clint’s. “So that would explain why they were around your ankles.”

Clint jerks in his lap, head lifting, trying to sit up, to check. “What?!”

Bucky can’t stop the laugh bubbling from his throat at Clint’s reaction, but presses his hands down firmly, keeping him safely in place. “Relax, Barton. I assured your modesty when I came in. I didn’t peek... much.” In truth, Bucky had been so focused on suppressing his panic he hadn’t peeked at all - but Clint didn’t need to know that. 

“I’m a fucking disaster.”

The red burning across Clint’s skin ignites something in Bucky’s chest, flickering embers catching inside him, starting to thaw those lost, secret parts of him. Bucky can feel his eyes turning soft as he stares down into the forlorn expression of the clumsiest, most oddly endearing person he’s ever met. He brushes his fingers through the short strands of Clint’s hair. “Yeah, you are.”

The warmth in his chest drops low, pooling in his belly. It would be so easy to just dip forward and capture Clint’s lips. Gathering his courage, Bucky leans forward, then curves to the right as Clint jerks upright.

Clint’s back snaps straight, then sags, and Bucky leans forward to grab his shoulders, not wanting him to free-fall back to the ground. 

“Hey, hey, easy.” Bucky shifts, unfolding onto his knees and scooting forward until he’s pressed flush against Clint’s back. He wraps his arms around the trembling body and takes Clint’s weight.

“I -- uh -- oh.” Clint’s body crumples against his, and he tightens his hold. 

He can feel the erratic thumping of Clint’s heart reverberating into his chest, and his own heart hastens to match the frenzied rhythm. “You know what I’m going to ask you, right?”

“I’m fine, Barnes. Just gimme a minute.”

Bucky can hear the thin threads of amusement wound around the words, so he doesn’t push, just hums against him, and waits. Clint’s head falls back against his shoulder, and Bucky narrowly resists the urge to press his lips to Clint’s forehead, now covered in a fine sheen of sweat. 

The minute turns into two, then four, then more, and Bucky just stays wrapped around Clint, content. But the feel of them slotted together sends awareness creeping along his skin, firing sparks through his nerves until he’s aching with it. Indecision fissures through him, wanting to keep Barton pressing against him, just like this, forever, and needing a reprieve from the repercussions of _having_ Barton pressing against him like this. A small gasp passes Clint’s lips as his eyelids flutter, and Bucky throbs, low and hard, and his choice is made. 

“Think you can get up?”

After a beat just long enough to be noticeable, Clint nods his head.

Bucky clamps his hands around Clint, lifting them both as he pushes to his feet. He holds Clint securely but keeps a cushion of space between them. Bucky bites at his lip, the realization dawning that he had forgotten the crutches. Again. Not that Clint is in any shape to use them, anyway. His choices, once again, are reduced to one - his karma for tapping out early. 

He draws a long breath into his lungs and traps it there - a distraction for his tortured mind. “Permission to carry?” 

“Permission granted.” Clint’s brilliant smile knocks the distraction right out of his chest.  
  


Clint stares at him, not even attempting to hide his gaze, for the entire journey to the communal floor. Bucky tries not to squirm under the scrutiny, but he feels the blush blooming hot where Clint’s arms are locked around his neck.

His body is a battle of relief and disappointment when he lowers Clint gently onto the overstuffed couch, lying his legs lengthwise over the seat, settling his back against the armrest. Staring down at the accident-prone archer, Bucky uses his leg to shift the glass-top table back a couple of feet, before gathering a dozen cushions from the collection of couches clustered around the ridiculously large flatscreen. He presses the pillows around and behind Barton like bubble wrap. After a moment’s hesitation, he grabs a few more and lays them on the floor, mirroring Clint’s position on the couch. 

At Clint’s raised eyebrow, Bucky can’t help but smirk down at him. “Just in case.” To Clint’s credit, he doesn’t say a word.

Bucky takes his place on the first vacant spot next to Clint and shuffles up against his feet - not enough to jostle the injured ankle, just enough to keep in contact. He digs his phone out of his pocket again and taps a rapid search string onto the screen. His eyes dart over the display as he scrolls, muttering under his breath, his pulse kicking up a notch. 

A concussion so soon after the first is less than ideal. In fact, given Clint’s predisposition to bad luck, Bucky's moderately surprised that the second fall hadn’t killed him on the spot. A sharp but hollow thud punches in his throat at the thought. He swallows around it roughly. 

“So, nothing to eat or drink for the next six hours.”

Clint’s face arranges itself into a look that can only be described as “ _oh, fuck that._ ” He shakes his head. “Well, that’s not gonna work for me. I need coffee.”

Bucky can’t help but shoot him an “ _I told you so_ ” look in return. “Well, you should have thought about that before you knocked yourself out again.”

“But... coffee?” Clint’s face falls, his lips pushing into a pout.

Bucky manages to keep his face neutral, just, as he pitches forward and grabs the remote from the table. “If you’d just called me like I told you to…”

He keeps his eyes locked forward as the screen shines to life, but watches from his peripheral vision as Clint sighs and glares at the clock on the wall like it had just insulted him. Bucky’s lips twitch as he settles into the couch, feeling Clint’s toes press against him, curling into the soft fabric of his sweatpants. He shifts slightly on his seat, moving closer. Clint’s second concussion notwithstanding, today is shaping up to be a very good day.

. . .

Clint has set a timer on his phone, to the minute, for the six hour mark, and Bucky has to admit he admires the dedication. 

Every fifteen minutes, Clint juts out his bottom lip, lowers his lashes, and does his best to crumble Bucky’s anti-coffee defenses. He hadn’t succeeded, though he is rapidly crumbling Bucky’s resolve not to climb over the length of Clint’s body, suck that protruding lip into his mouth, and grind down against him until he’s begging for something other than caffeine.   
  
But, for now, at least, the defenses are holding, and Bucky buries his affection and huffs out a no, or rolls his eyes, and Clint gives up. ...For another fifteen minutes. 

Bucky is trying to distract Clint with Halloween movies: less than savory hors d’ oeuvres to whet the appetite for Nat’s upcoming Halloween party. After the credits roll on the latest low-budget slasher flick, Bucky turns to Clint --he still has seven more minutes before the next coffee demand-- and motions to the tv. “Pick your poison.”

Clint’s mouth twists as he surveys the selection of blood-soaked movie posters littering the screen. He holds out his hand for the remote. “If this is your go-to selection, you’re missing out. Hand it over, Barnes, and I’ll show you a real Halloween movie.”

Bucky grins and hands over the remote, eager to garner a little more insight into Clint’s preferences.

Forty minutes later, Clint is frowning at him. “This _is so_ a Halloween movie.” His voice is adamant.

Bucky presses his lips into a tight seam, squashing the smile before it can sprout. Bucky shakes his head, watching Clint’s eyebrows knit together at the motion. “It’s clearly a Christmas movie, Barton.”

Clint sighs and nudges him with his good foot. “Look, Jack is from Halloween town, okay? Hall-o-ween Town. He’s a skel-e-ton,” he draws out like he’s talking to a very dim child. 

Bucky motions toward the screen. “...Dressed as Santa.”

“He has a ghost dog.”

“And he’s singing about _Making Christmas_.”

Clint sighs, turning back to the screen. “Look, Barnes, your life will go a lot smoother if you just accept three things when it comes to movies. One, _Die Hard_ is a Christmas movie, and the best Christmas movie by far. Two, _The Nightmare Before Christmas_ is absolutely, unequivocally, a Halloween movie, and again, the best Halloween movie. And three --” Clint’s voice trails off as his lips twist, obviously having not planned the third very important thing in advance. “--uh, Legolas is the best film archer, hands down,” he finishes, a note of pride at having come up with a plausible finish on such short notice hangs on the proclamation.

Bucky’s eyes drift over Clint, but _his_ archer’s gaze is now fixed pointedly on the singing skeleton.

His mind conjures an image of the screen archer in question. Bucky had found Clint sprawled out, not always conscious, on this very couch after a well-spent _night before_ on more than one occasion. Usually, with glasses drawn, bottles of Advil and water waiting on the table, a post-it stuck to his forehead, with ‘ _do not disturb until all three movies are finished_ ’ scrawled on it in Nat’s handwriting, and _The Lord Of The Rings_ trilogy cued up, playing in the background.

“He doesn’t give you aim envy?”

Clint shakes his head. “It’s not fair to compare, he’s basically supernatural! Though, I could take him in a fair fight.”

“And that’s the only reason he gets your top spot?” Bucky lets the teasing flow thick and easy over the words.

Still not looking at him, Clint shrugs. “I mean, he doesn’t exactly nock my arrow, but he has a few quality qualities.”

Bucky can’t help it. He’s intrigued despite himself. “Such as?”

“The hair for one. It’s long, y’ know? Good to tangle your hands in.”

Memories of Clint doing just that to his hair last night blaze bright in Bucky’s mind. 

“And those eyes...” Clint finally turns, locking eyes with Bucky. “Such an amazing blue. Gorgeous.”

Bucky can’t stop the fire spreading to his cheeks. He lifts his hand and rests it on Clint’s leg, drawing lazy patterns through the baggy sweats as he turns his face back to the movie, but keeping his attention entirely on Clint. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Clint follow suit even as his lips twitch up into a smile. 

The end credits are rolling before Clint asks for more coffee.

. . . 

After the Halloween-slash-Christmas movie ends, Clint gives him carte blanche to choose again, and Bucky exchanges the skeleton with a Santa sack for a strange hessian and orange jumpsuit-wearing killer with a lollipop, hoping the absurdity might amuse Clint. 

Bucky presses the pen to the cast in his lap, focused on the placement of the dark lines as he chews on the pen cap, thoughtfully. Slowly an idea forms in his head from the random shapes he's already made, and Bucky starts sketching out a cartoon bird version of Clint. His artistic talents aren’t as advanced as Steve’s, but he needs to keep his hands busy, lest they wander like they’re itching to.   
  
A shrill scream from the tv makes Bucky's eyes flick up, and he smiles at the ludicrous scene playing out on screen.

Clint’s bemused voice pulls his attention. “Fan of Halloween?”

Bucky takes the pen cap out of his mouth and rolls it between metal fingers, keeping his flesh hand planted firmly on Clint. Warm memories sweep through his mind and expand out, crinkling his eyes and tipping his lips up further. 

“When we were kids, me and Steve always went together. Steve was so small back then, he passed for a lot younger than he was. I dragged him out for more years than I really should have, pushing him up to doors to do the deed while I hung back and waited to split the spoils.” Visions of Steve’s petulant face and the huffed protests fill his mind, and Bucky laughs, softly. Steve had grumbled and dragged his feet but had always given up in the end, if only to appease Bucky. 

“So, is Steve your type?” 

Given the wide-eyed, deer-in-the-headlights look, Bucky is pretty sure Clint hadn't meant to blurt that out. Hope spreads wings inside him, fanning the flames in his chest. The past few hours had brought him back to steady ground, and armed with the knowledge Clint returned at least some of his interest, Bucky can’t resist funneling some of his new ease into a little mischief.

Bucky lets his grin slide into a smirk. “Then or now?”

“Either.”

The smirk grows, watching Clint trying to act casual. After a beat spent appreciating the slow-growing blush creeping up Clint’s neck, Bucky takes pity on him. “Steve is family. Always has been, always will be. To try and think of him as anything past that is just… weird.”

“But... you are gay, right?” The deer-in-the-headlights look is back in full force, the flush from his neck now highlighting every inch of skin above it, too.

Bucky had always had a deep dislike of labels and the idea that you could put people into tidy little boxes. An image of Steve, small and sickly, rises in his mind. People had taken one look at him and placed him into a box, stamped with _disposable, useless, not worthy._ But Bucky had seen through the labels and done his best to help Steve see through them, too. Bucky smiles slightly to himself. If only they could see Steve now... he wouldn’t fit any box they tried to shove him into. And as for himself, the only box he had any intention of being in is the one that will be planted in the ground, and by then, anything they stamp on or above it will come too late to matter. 

Bucky shakes his head, as much to clear the thoughts as to answer Clint. “No…” He shouldn’t feel a jolt of pleasure at the way Clint’s face falls. He shouldn’t, but he does. “...Not completely.”

The hope on Clint’s face sends goosebumps prickling up the back of Bucky’s neck. 

“Expand on that, Barnes.”

Clint’s eyes fix on his and Bucky holds his gaze unflinchingly. “I like who I like. I like what I like.” He shrugs. “I like a lot.”

“So, I’m just not that you like, then?”

Bucky’s world tilts, seeing the same questions, doubts, and fears that have been leading his mind on a merry chase, mirrored in Clint’s eyes. He drops his gaze down to Clint's leg pressed into his lap, dragging up the borrowed sweatpants, lingering on the solid expanse of chest rising and falling a little too quickly under thin cotton, before sliding up over the enticing column of his throat, and finally re-meeting his eyes. "Why would you think that?”

A tremor runs through Clint’s body and threads itself into his voice. “Uh, last night. I all but handed you an engraved invitation, and you hard passed. I mean, I get if hard, near-naked, and desperate isn’t your type…”

“You remember that?” Bucky fights to keep the surprise out of his voice.

“I remember everything.” The words land heavy, and something shifts, charging the air around them. Clint blinks and pastes a smile on his face that doesn't reach his eyes. “Pretty hard to forget such a spectacular rejection, Barnes.” The light tone rings hollow. 

“Oh. Well.” Bucky presses the pen back to the cast, focusing intently on the black strokes on white plaster, the makeshift distraction reason enough to avoid Clint’s eyes. “You were pretty wasted, and I know it was a case of me being the nearest warm body on offer. The _only_ warm body.” His shoulder lifts easily, though his throat constricts - the bitter taste of the past resurfacing. “I know what it’s like to not have control. To regret things you can’t remember later. I didn’t want that for you.”

The dark cloud, never far away, settles over him, dragging him inside himself, and memories flash like lightning in his mind, bright and sharp and destructive. His thoughts rage and crash over him, and for a moment he's lost. But then Clint’s voice breaks through like a beam of light, cutting through the dark and guiding him outward again. The soft words bring him up, little by little.

“I’m not always like that, y’ know. I’ve been a little... off, lately. The drunken come-ons, well, no, that’s not completely unheard of, but the uh…” Clint falters. “The, um, licking your neck and begging and so forth. That’s not really my standard operating procedure. The thing is, I’ve been having these…” Clint clears his throat roughly. “...dreams lately. About you.”

Bucky tenses, confusion filtering out from his head into his voice. “Dreams? As in, more than one?”

“Ah, yeah. All week, actually. And they’re kind of personal dreams. _Intimate_.” Clint’s voice wraps around the word, pressing more feeling into the three syllables than it should be capable of holding. “Anyway, I guess the accident must have knocked them out of my head, but this morning, my meet-cute with the door must have knocked them back in.” 

The would-be easy shrug of Clint’s shoulder is betrayed by the tension coiling through his muscles, and Bucky's eyes narrow on the motion as his mind turns on a dime. The fact Clint had more than one dream is puzzle enough, but… Bucky cocks his head. “I thought you said you didn’t remember the dreams until this morning?”

The bracing smile on Clint’s face falls as he blinks over at Bucky and nods. 

“But, you were licking my neck last night…” Bucky trails off as the phantom sensation of Clint’s tongue sears over his skin.

“Oh. Yeah. I guess… even though my brain forgot, it feels like… my body… remembers. They were pretty intense dreams.” Clint’s words are an awkward jumbled confession, and red sweeps across his cheeks as a chill rushes down Bucky’s spine.

The metallic taste of guilt washes over his tongue, courtesy of the teeth pressing into his cheek. The dreams are the cause of all Clint’s troubles. _He_ is the cause of all Clint’s troubles. “I’m sorry.”

The reassuring weight of Clint’s leg in his lap suddenly feels heavy, the tangible cost of Bucky’s cowardice weighing down on him. Regret tightens the hand not trailing over Barton’s leg into a fist as he forces himself to meet Clint’s eyes. 

“Trying to take credit, Barnes? Did HYDRA share some of their brainwashing secrets with you before you ram-scrayed?”

The unknown comparison bites at Bucky and still his hand. 

“Sorry, too soon? I just mean, you didn’t put those dreams in my head.”

Blue eyes lock on his, clear and bright, and Bucky falters. Wilting under the open gaze, Bucky drops his. He should have confessed to Clint earlier, before this… this whatever it is, had gotten this far. But now, his failings had come home to roost. His hands twist together, an echo of the tangle of knots rearranging his stomach. 

“No, I didn’t, but…” Bucky’s words die on his tongue, bitter and sharp.

“But what?”

“But I know who did. It, uh, as Wanda.”

Clint jolts like Bucky had hit him with more than just words. “What the actual fuck, Barnes? What, the two of you cooked up some weird little prank just to mess with me?”

“No! Fuck, Barton, nothing like that. I just… I was talking to Wanda, telling her about --” His words drag from his throat, stretching thin and threatening to break. “--the dreams I was having. I’ve been having. For a long while. About you.”

Bucky scrapes his nails over his scalp --the familiarity of pain grounding him-- before letting his hand fall down, hovering over Clint for a moment before shrinking away, pressing down onto the couch between them, instead. 

“She wanted me to talk to you, but I knew you were oblivious. I asked if she could--” Bucky raises his hands, wriggling his fingers in a bad imitation of energy manipulation, and shrugs, “--do her thing and pull the dreams out of my head.” Well, _begged_ would be closer to the mark. He’d loathed telling anyone about his subconscious’s single-minded focus when wrapped in sleep, but he’d reached his limits and crashed headlong through them, that polestar of sleep bleeding into his waking mind and driving him to distraction. 

“...and put them in mine?” The rawness of Clint’s voice slices painfully into Bucky’s chest.

“No! That was… that was never supposed to happen. When I got back a few days ago, she told me she’d --ah, shown you the dreams that night after we’d spoken. I think she was trying to be sweet. Helpful? She was… trying to play match-maker.” Humiliation floods his skin as he lays his cards on the table, shit hand though it is. He risks a look at Clint’s face and immediately wishes he hadn’t. The floor drops away from under his feet, taking his stomach with it. 

“She swore she did it just the once, though, that first night, and she wasn’t trying to hurt you, just trying to get you to see me in a, uh, different light, I think. That’s not an excuse and doesn’t make it right, but that’s all it was, no malice, and just the once, I don’t know what you kept having the dreams after that…” Bucky’s chest is burning, whether from the lack of oxygen or the pained look on Clint’s face, he isn’t sure, but he sucks in an unsteady breath and welds his jaw shut, damming the flood of words and possibly damning himself in the process.

“I --” Clint’s words are cut off by the timer on his phone. His mouth snaps closed as he reaches for it. He swipes off the alarm and stares down at it like it’s offering answers Bucky can’t.

Bucky’s fingers curl inward, pressing crescent-shaped cuts into his palm as Clint recoils his leg, his eyes lifting to Bucky’s. 

Bucky sees the exact moment Clint closes himself off. It happens in an instant, shutting Bucky out as quickly and easily as he had drawn the blinds this morning. The warmth and light in those blue eyes dulling, turning cold, and sliding out of reach. 

Bucky watches helplessly as Clint struggles to his feet. He steadies himself by the couch and drapes himself over his crutches.

“I can fix you something…” He can fix anything, except what counts. 

Clint’s answer rings clear in the tight muscles, bowed head, and averted gaze before he even opens his mouth. “I’m not hungry.”

“Cl — Barton…?” Bucky can’t bring himself to use Clint’s name, too intimate for the distance unfolding between them. The hesitation hangs in the air, a heavy question mark, buoyed by hope and weighed down with certainty. Lost in limbo, like him.

“I just need to lay down for a bit, but I’m fine. Six hours, right? Babysitting duty is over.” Clint’s voice is flat but slices at Bucky more effectively than a blade.

He surges to his feet as Clint takes his first hop-step forward. Hovering on the spot, muscles twitching from the effort to remain still and not rush after him, Bucky watches Clint disappearing from view, from his life, one halting step at a time.

  
The elevator doors slide closed, swallowing Clint from view, and Bucky's legs buckle, sending him sinking back down on the couch. He stays motionless, eyes fixed on the spot Barton had disappeared until the creeping shadows grow enough to consume the lingering rays of dusk. Bucky pulls his knees up and wraps his arms around them. The cold in his bones is back, the burgeoning embers stirred by Clint being snuffed out, one by one, with each agonizing step away from him. He rests his cheek against his legs, eyes never wavering as he sits, and stares, and despairs. 


	6. Follow Me Under and Pull Me Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had not planned for Clint to ever know of the dreams, but he can’t lay the blame at Wanda’s feet. If only he had been able to handle things himself, she would never have known, and Clint would have remained oblivious. And unhurt. ...And then the past few days would never have happened. A new blaze of guilt flares bright in his mind as he recalls the feel of Clint in his arms and mouthing at his skin. Pleasures must be earned in advance or paid for later. And Bucky certainly hadn’t earned them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hai, I found where the angst from the last chapter was hiding and thought I would share. I'm nice like that.

The cold darkness surrounding him echoes that within and makes Bucky feel like he’s tumbling, caught in a rolling wave, pushed below the surface so deeply he can no longer tell which way is up. 

The memory of Clint’s face, twisted in pain and confusion, burns through his closed eyelids, and a chill steals down his spine. Bucky understands that look. He’s _had_ that look. Shame and disgust bleed out into the mix of guilt and regret already rolling in his stomach. He knows what it’s like to be manipulated, to have someone else’s thoughts - someone else’s agenda - shoved forcibly into his brain. The knowledge he had been responsible for forcing that on Clint, however indirectly or unintended, presses in on him, making his chest constrict painfully.

He had not planned for Clint to ever know of the dreams, but he can’t lay the blame at Wanda’s feet. If only he had been able to handle things himself, she would never have known, and Clint would have remained oblivious. And unhurt. ...And then the past few days would never have happened. A new blaze of guilt flares bright in his mind as he recalls the feel of Clint in his arms and mouthing at his skin. Pleasures must be earned in advance or paid for later. And Bucky certainly hadn’t earned them.

He is no stranger to pain. He could deal with the kind that leaks from his skin, dark red stains casting blue-black shadows. Broken bones, torn skin, stolen limbs were familiar. But this - this constant, hollow ache in places he can't reach, can’t ignore, is new. Unbearable. To have Clint within reach but beyond touch is worse than having him trapped solely in his head.

Understanding sparking acceptance, Bucky’s hand tightens on his phone, and he taps his thumb over the picture of Steve smiling up at him from the screen.

After three rings, the call connects, and a too-cheerful voice greets him. “Steve said to tell you the mission went fine without you, and you can keep your ‘I told you so’s’ to yourself.”

Bucky startles slightly. A strange sensation unfurls inside him, and it takes him a moment to place it: self-interest. So caught up in his own world falling apart, he had completely forgotten about the actual world falling apart. “Nat?” 

“The one and only. Steve is busy debriefing Tony. Though honestly, I take him for a boxers man, myself.” The amused voice levels out when Bucky doesn’t laugh, or scoff, or answer at all. “I can get him if you need him,” she offers quietly.

Bucky shakes his head before catching himself. “No, that’s okay, Nat.” He clears his throat and searches his mind for a way to ask for what he needs without explicitly asking. “Uh, so another win for the team, then? Will you lot be back soon?” He tries to lift some of the weight off the words, peel back the desperation, but he can feel Nat’s calculating look through the phone. 

“Everyone is taking a few hours to chill and regroup and will be back tomorrow…” she trails off, before adding, “well, technically, later tonight, I guess.” And Bucky cringes, realizing how late it must be. She pauses, assessing Bucky’s pause. “But, I wouldn’t say no to unfettered access to Stark’s private bathroom for a few hours if you wanted to change up Bartonsitting duty.”

Gratitude speeds through him at Nat’s tact and grace, and her unnerving ability to let him retreat, tail between his legs, without a word of judgment. “Well, I wouldn’t want to deny you that.” Bucky forces as much lightness into his voice as he can, wincing when it comes out wooden and hollow. “I need to, uh, head out for a bit, and I don’t want to leave Barton to his own devices. I can’t have Stark blaming me if Barton burns down the tower while making toast.” 

Nat’s musical laugh sounds through the phone, letting it peter out before asking, in a voice that suggests she already knows the answer, “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, Barton is fine… mostly. A little worse for wear than the last time you saw him, but nothing that’s --”

Nat cuts him off with soft but measured words. “How are _you_?”

Bucky pauses again, unsure how to answer without lying through his teeth. He feels like one of those handmade, tye-dyed hippie shirts Scott had given him for his birthday, all his emotions leaking out, bleeding into each other in a muddy mess. He defaults to his first instinct and answers the only way he can. “Fine.”

Nat’s “ _hmmm_ ” speaks volumes, and every unspoken word is calling bullshit. There’s a beat, and then, “He likes you too, you know.”

The words that would have made him thrill with possibility hours ago now bring only a deep ache of pain, compressing his chest until he can’t answer Nat even if he had wanted to. Clint had liked him or had been starting to. But now… Now it’s too late.

Several moments of empty air hang between them until Bucky can grind out, “Your ETA?”

Nat follows his change of direction without complaint. “I’ll be back in time to give Clint his wake-up call. Four hours, give or take.”

“Thank you, Nat.” The words are for more than just her agreement to come home early, and Bucky hears the acknowledgment in her answering " _mhm_ " before he ends the call.

He straightens, his cramped muscles protesting as he pushes off the couch and starts toward the stairwell. It feels good to have a new focus - a plan. He’ll pack some things and take his leave. Staying here, lingering while Clint needs time to lick his wounds will do neither of them any good. Clean breaks heal quickest, though Bucky is sure it’s going to leave one hell of a scar.

. . .  
  
Bucky has lost track of how long he’s been standing motionless next to Steve’s motorcycle in the parking level. The hesitation isn’t from taking the bike without permission - he knows Steve won’t mind. And he knows Clint has everything he needs - the Quinjet had landed more than half an hour ago. And yet, as if tethered by an invisible, unbreakable thread, he remains.

This thing between them may have originated in his head, his dreams. Though forged from fantasy, his feelings had found root in reality. Growing, deepening in unexpected though not unwanted ways. As much as he had initially just wanted --no, craved-- falling into bed with Clint, Bucky is starting to fall in a whole different way.

It is something he thought impossible. But then, _impossible_ has become a sliding scale: he's a hundred years old, has spent more time as an ice cube than a functioning human being, has a magical metal arm, and is falling in love with a guy possessing a supernatural aim who shoots aliens with a bow and arrow.

Bucky shakes his head, softly. Clint challenges him and delights him. Makes him smile, makes him feel warm again. Makes him want to tear Clint's clothes off and spend hours taking him apart with his fingers and mouth and more. But whatever seed had been planted between them, Bucky had burned before it even had a chance to bloom.

He has to go. And he has no one to blame but himself.

He climbs onto the bike, strengthening his resolve. He can’t languish here, drowning in false hope. He drags in a deep breath and pauses as slight vibrations pulse against his leg. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and eyes the screen. Clint’s face blinks up at him.

_I’ve fallen and I can’t get up._

Bucky jolts off the bike and pushes his backpack from his shoulders -- he’s through the stairwell door before it hits the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: the next chapter is going to be a rehash of the mirrored chapter from Clint's POV, since there's no way to jump it and have the story make sense, so apologies in advance for any deja-vu I put you through.


	7. These Clouds Around You Break Your Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint’s movements are skittish, but his voice is pained, and Bucky struggles to make sense of the contradiction. “Why aren’t you lying concussed on the floor?” Again. He scrambles to find an even keel. Being unable to chart Clint’s intended course is keeping him off-kilter and on edge.
> 
> Clint’s face twists into an apologetic grimace. “Oh, I, uh, might have over-exaggerated a bit.”

Fear turns Bucky’s muscles leaden as they strain, stretching to take the steps two at a time, closing the distance to Clint as quickly as he's able. Rivulets of sweat run down his neck, and cling to his face, catching tendrils of hair and trapping them against his skin. His chest is heaving with each harsh, burning breath, but finally, he’s pushing through the door to the communal floor.

His momentum carries him forward into the room before the commands from his brain reach his body and halt his movement. Suddenly unsteady, Bucky tries to find his footing as his world drops out from under him. 

Balanced on one foot, draped over his crutches, Clint is standing, facing the elevators.

The panic flooding Bucky’s body breaks, confusion bleeding through the cracks. _Clint had lied to him._

Clint’s head jerks toward his sudden appearance, eyes edging wide. “Uh, hi.” Awkwardly, he step-turns his body, leaning heavily on the crutches. His teeth press into his lip, putting an end to Bucky’s hopes of an explanation.

Bucky’s body coils tight, and he suppresses the intense impulse to rush forward. Charging into battle is never a good strategy, especially when the territory is unfamiliar, so he stalks forward, slowly - his physical movements a stark contrast to his racing mind. “What. The. Fuck.” He pushes the words out through clenched teeth.

Clint licks his lips and scratches nervously at the aluminum pole under his fingertips. “Why did you leave?”

Clint’s movements are skittish, but his voice is pained, and Bucky struggles to make sense of the contradiction. “Why aren’t you lying concussed on the floor?” _Again._ He scrambles to find an even keel. Being unable to chart Clint’s intended course is keeping him off-kilter and on edge.

Clint’s face twists into an apologetic grimace. “Oh, I, uh, might have over-exaggerated a bit.”

Bucky’s head notches to the side. He fights to keep his expression neutral, not wanting to betray the mess of emotions churning, unchecked, just below the surface, but an eyebrow hitches up at Clint’s words before he can stop it. He drags it back down and pulls in a slow breath, willing his pulse to slow as he waits for the other shoe to drop.

“Okay, so by a bit, I mean a lot...” Clint’s tongue darts over dry lips, and like a moth to a flame, Bucky’s gaze chases the movement - the simple action pooling heat low in his belly, picturing that tease of pink swiping over other things. He shifts his weight, carefully, forces his eyes back up, meeting Clint’s uncertain gaze, and waits. “But I needed to talk to you.”

Bucky’s heart thumps painfully in his chest. _Need to talk_ — the three-word death knell. In his experience, no good ever follows those words. Maybe this is the part where Clint rails at him, throws all the pain he’d caused back at him, one sharp word at a time. It would explain why Clint is so nervous - wanting to get angry, but worried about retaliation. Bucky ignores the ache in his chest. If lashing out is what Clint needs, to move on, to heal, he will take it... he can’t say he doesn’t deserve it. Bucky braces himself, but lets his shoulders drop, lowering his eyes to the floor - removing the threat, softening the target. “So talk.”

“I wasn’t upset about Wanda putting the dreams in my head.” It takes a moment for Clint to find his words, but once the seal breaks, the rest fall out in a rapid, jumbled mess. “I mean, well, yeah, I was, of course.” He breaks off in a huff before trying again. “It was the idea that it was all a lie, that I was being carried away by thoughts in my head that weren’t even mine. But the truth is…” Clint’s words trail off, and Bucky can’t stop himself from leaning in slightly, chasing them, his eyes drawing back to Clint’s face. Clint’s gaze meets his before wavering and dropping low. His head follows suit. “These past few days with you… it’s not my head running away with me, or my dick - sloppy drunk groping notwithstanding - it’s my _heart_.”

Bucky’s expectations of anger hang unfulfilled as Clint’s words come out hesitantly… hopefully. His heart stutters in his chest - a pinched moment of empty anticipation before it beats, heavy and raw, against his ribs. Hope and suspicion war for dominance, hemorrhaging adrenaline, and he curls his fingers into a fist, lest they betray the tremors dancing through him.

Clint draws a deep breath like he’s pulling in fresh oxygen stores to fan the flames of courage. “You make me feel things that I’ve never felt before. Scary things. Things I shouldn’t be feeling after three days. Things I can’t blame solely on the head injury.” The corner of Clin’s lips twitch. “... _injuries._ Uh, what I’m trying to say is I didn’t over-exaggerate. Not really. Because I think--” Clint swallows roughly before continuing, the words falling so softly, that had Bucky not already been straining to hear, he would have missed them completely. “--I think I have fallen. Or, half-fallen. Am in the process?” Clint shakes his head miserably, and Bucky can almost hear the internal monologue as Clint berates himself for tripping over his words, but charging ahead nonetheless. “I think I might be falling… for you.”

The leaden strings of fear and denial ensnaring hope snap, and it unfolds inside Bucky, bold and bright. He stands staring, mutely, at Clint, warmth flooding his body. He steps forward, pressing into Clint’s space, placing a metal finger gently under his chin and tipping it up. Words fail him as that brilliant blue gaze lifts, but Bucky knows his thoughts find purchase when he sees the emotion, equal in strength to his own, reflecting out at him from Clint’s eyes.

Bucky’s fingers skate across Clint’s cheek as he reaches to wrap his hand around the back of Clint’s neck, and tugs him forward in one smooth motion, dissolving the distance between them. Urgency roughs the press of lips as he claims Clint’s mouth. It is everything Bucky has been imagining, and so beyond anything he had dreamed. He swallows down the soft moan that spills into his mouth and uses his tongue to tease out more as Clint’s arms reach up to wrap around his neck. 

Forgotten crutches fall to the floor, and Bucky grips Clint’s waist instinctively. He breaks the kiss, breaths coming quick and harsh as he jolts Clint upward, savoring the feel of the hard body sliding over his. Bucky locks his hands together under Clint’s ass, pulling their bodies flush together, anchoring him in place.

Draping his arms over Bucky’s shoulder casually, possessively, Clint stares down at him, all hesitation gone. A self-satisfied smile decorates his lips. Bucky lets his eyelids fall closed as Clint’s hands lift to rake through his hair. A small chuckle escapes his throat as he feels Clint’s legs wrapping around his hips.

“Why the hell are we still vertical, Barnes?” Clint grinds roughly against Bucky’s stomach. “I take it you are agreeable to upgrading the friendship to something that requires less clothing and more thrusting?”

Bucky finally wrenches his eyes open, coming to focus on the heavy-lidded eyes staring down at him. He slides his hand over the swell of flesh under his palm and squeezes, delighting in the way Clint squirms against him. “Yeah. About that…” 

The journey to the couch is slow, each stiff step sweet torture as Clint rubs against him. Bucky sinks onto the plush cushion with Clint still wrapped around him. He runs careful hands over Clint’s legs, unlocking them from behind his back. He bends them, rests them on the couch either side of his thighs, before reclining back, reveling in the solid weight pressing down on his lap.

“Is couch sex one fo those things you’re into? Exhibitionism? Does the thought of having the team arrive while you’re balls deep inside me get you going, Barnes?” The comical wag of Clint’s eyebrows doesn’t match the low, hungry tone of his voice. 

Bucky captures the soft flesh of his cheek between his teeth and presses down, hard. “We can’t.”

“Oh, we really, really can.” Clint folds over him, open lips pressing against his neck, and sucking the enclosed flesh into his mouth. Clint’s hips grind roughly against him, and Bucky’s mind stalls, for a moment losing sight of every reason why they can’t. It would be so easy to rip Clint’s pants off and take him here, to make a mess on Stark’s stupidly-expensive couch. The heavy throb of his heart is mirrored lower, aching where Clint is bearing down against him. The hard press of plaster against his knee jump-starts his brain. 

“Uhh, all pants are, oh, staying on until you get the --”  
  
Teeth rasp over the tender spot Clint’s lips and tongue had been worshiping only moments before, and Bucky’s fingertips anchor themselves into Clint’s hips, torn between telling him to stop and begging him not to. 

“--ahh, fuck, the all clear from the doctor.”

Clint clamps his hands on Bucky’s shoulders and jolts his hips forward, crushing twin arousals together before rocking back. He shakes his head slowly. “Yeah, no. My appointment isn’t until tomorrow. Can’t wait that long.” Lifting one hand from his shoulder, Clint snakes it between the hem of Bucky’s t-shirt and his skin, sliding up his abdomen and curving over his chest until determined fingers pinch down over his nipple, and twist harshly. 

_Jesus._ White-hot sparks burn through already overwhelmed nerve endings. “No… strenuous… activity, Barton,” Bucky chokes out. “And me fucking you into this couch right now would be very, very strenuous.”

Clint’s reply comes immediately. “Acceptable risk. I’ll sign a waiver.”

The feeling of Clint’s arousal grinding harshly against his own, separated only by damp fabric, is making it hard to breathe. He sucks in a ragged breath as his fingertips press harder into Clint’s hips, asserting pressure enough to stop his movements. His resolve may be strong enough to withstand Clint’s manipulations, but his body is not.

The respite lasts two seconds before Clint whines and leans down, licking a hot path up his neck to his ear. The tongue disappears from his skin as warm breath ghosts over his ear. “It doesn’t have to be strenuous. I can just slide up and down on your cock, all nice and slow-like.” Clint nips at his earlobe, and Bucky can’t stop the moan breaking over his lips. “You’ve been teasing me for a week, Barnes. Time to get out of my dreams and into my body. _I need to come_.”

A shiver blazes through him, and for once, Bucky can’t remember what being cold feels like. His skin is feverish, burning hot, attempting to contain the lust raging through him. Unable to bear more of Clint running his mouth, he closes his fist around the short strands of hair, pulls him back, and shuts him up the only way he knows how. 

Clint’s mouth opens for him immediately, going soft in a show of submission that has Bucky pushing a low growl into the welcoming warmth. Clint’s hands close around the long strands of Bucky’s hair like he’s holding on for dear life, his hips jerking in Bucky’s grasp, frantically trying to break free of their shackles.

Bucky pulls back from Clint's ravenous mouth, sucking air into his aching lungs - a vain attempt to abate the dizziness swirling inside his head. His heart is keeping a painfully fast pace in his chest, and denim presses into him, too tight and too wet for comfort. His eyes drop to Clint’s lips, swollen and wet from their kisses, before Clint shifts from view, pressing into Bucky’s neck, mewling soft, impatient noises. Bucky chokes back a moan. Even he has his limits -- and he’s pretty sure he smashed through them about ten minutes ago. 

The loud ding of the elevator pulls his attention, and, thankfully, Clint’s. 

Chagrined, Bucky stares at the five Avengers staring mutely at him, collective shock and embarrassment painted across their skin in bright cheeks, open mouths, and wide eyes. Well, four, he amends, eyes narrowing on Nat’s smirking face.

Sam, not two steps out of the elevator, backpedals almost immediately, bumping off the wall like a human bumper-car in his haste to escape. His “Oh, hell no. I’m out” drifts into the room before the elevator doors swallow him from view. 

“Oh, hey. It’s the team. Hi, team.” Clint’s voice is breathless, and a thrill of satisfaction rolls through Bucky, knowing he’s not the only one overwhelmed by Clint’s efforts.

Bucky winces and drops his head into the crook of Clint’s neck. Fuck. Clint’s words from earlier sound in his head, and Bucky flushes, immensely grateful his willpower had held, and he _hadn’t_ been balls deep in Clint when the team arrived. Though hard to imagine right now, that would have been much, much more awkward.

“You better not be getting any fluids on my couch, or you’ll be buying me a new one. And I will be checking.” 

Bucky drags his face across Clint’s skin as he turns to glare at Tony. 

“Ah, uh, hey, Buck.” Bucky catches Steve’s gaze before it slides up to the ceiling, his best friend’s skin cycling through soft pink to brilliant red in seconds. Steve rubs the back of his neck, his tell of extreme discomfort, and adds stiffly, “Barton.”

“Cap.” Clint’s tone is buoyant, the smirk from his face slipping into his voice. 

“You know, if you two were looking for an audience, you just had to ask. I could have delayed these guys for…” Nat’s voice trails off as her eyes comb over them, and Bucky can see the gears spinning in her mind, calculating exactly how much longer his willpower would have held out. “...another three minutes.” 

Bucky can’t help snorting out a humorless laugh. Nat is giving him much too much credit - he would have clocked it at thirty seconds, max. His eyes drift to Bruce, who remains silent, smiling softly down at his shoes. His appreciation for the man grows tenfold in ten seconds.

Lifting his hands from Clint’s hips and trailing them up to his waist, Bucky nudges him sideways - a subtle hint. But Clint is not so great at subtleties. He _is_ great at seizing opportunities, however. Taking advantage of his newly-released hips, Clint rolls them, grinding roughly, and Bucky’s blush burns brighter as a moan tears from his throat, low and loud, at the delicious and unexpected friction. 

Tony startles and claps his hands, eyes flicking to Steve. “Right! That’s my cue! I’ll be in the workshop doing, uh, work type things. Rogers, care to lend a hand?”

Bucky smiles, despite himself, as Steve nods and trails after Tony to the elevator. Tony may not be good, per se, but he is good for Steve, and though Bucky has always been happy for him, it hasn’t been without the slight sting of jealousy. He hadn't known what it was like to have that connection with someone - the mental, emotional, and, _oh_ , --Bucky bites back another moan as Clint drives against him again-- extremely physical connection. Until now.

Bruce’s amused voice pulls his focus. “Yeah, I think I should also be… somewhere… that’s not here…” 

On his lap, Clint perks up, twisting toward the elevator. “Hey, Banner? Got a minute?”

Bruce turns to them but keeps his line of sight politely averted. “That would depend on what you want the minute for.”

“You got any paper on you? I need a doctor’s note.”

_“Clint!”_ Now fluent in _Barton_ , Bucky knows precisely where this is headed.

“A note?” Bruce’s voice is cautious. 

“Mhmm. I had a little, uh, incident while you were off saving the world. Landed myself with a concussion --”

“ _Two,_ ” Bucky bites out, shaking his head. Of course Clint is downplaying things. “He’s had _two_ concussions in _three_ days.”

Clint waves Bucky’s concerns off with a flick of his wrist. “And I read --”

“And _I_ read --” The rest of Bucky’s words are eaten by another moan as Clint rocks against him once more. Dangerously close to maximum humiliation, Bucky clamps his hands down on Clint’s hips again, thwarting further movement. 

“--that you shouldn’t partake in strenuous activity until you’re given a clean bill of health.” Clint finishes, triumphantly, like he had not noticed Bucky’s interruptions. 

Bucky glares at incorrigible punk sitting in his lap - shoulders back, head held high, like Clint is king, and Bucky his throne. The withering look he throws Clint has no effect. Clint just smiles at him, smugness etched into every line on his face. 

“And even though I’ve assured him I feel plenty healthy, Bucky is holding his dick hostage until I get the all clear, so… help a guy out with the ransom demands?”

“ _Barton._ ” Bucky chokes out the name, burning so hot he can feel the heat radiating off his skin. 

“Uh. I’m not sure I’m really the right--” Bruce starts, awkwardly.

“Bruce, you’re more than qualified. You were healing plague patients in India when we first met.” Natasha cuts in, sauntering over to the couch. 

“It wasn’t the plague, it was just…” An arched brow from Nat and a pointed look toward the couch has Bruce nodding slowly. “But, yeah, I could do that. Sure.”

Bucky shakes his head at the way Clint’s eyes light up. Still perched atop him, Clint submits himself to the impromptu medical check-up with surprising sincerity; he follows the light on Nat’s phone as Bruce checks his pupillary response, lets Bruce poke and prod him and check his pulse, and answers a laundry list of questions with minimal wise-cracking. 

By the time Bruce is satisfied enough to start scribbling on a piece of paper, so helpfully supplied by Nat, a pretty pink is spreading up Clint’s neck, and understanding unfurls within Bucky. At the core of things, Clint is a private person, and he likes to keep his business, _his business_. Yet, despite that, he had opened himself up, laid himself bare for everyone to see, all for the chance of setting Bucky’s mind at ease, and for the possibility of being together _now_. The knowledge that Clint couldn’t wait another twenty-four hours to be with him makes his heart swell and his head spin.

He blinks at the piece of paper held aloft by Bruce before reaching out to take it. Banner offers him an apologetic smile before he grabs Nat’s arm and practically drags her in the direction of the elevator. Clint snatches the paper before he can read it, and squints down at it for a moment before waving it victoriously, two inches from Bucky’s face. 

Nat’s voice sounds from the elevator, “Have fun, boys!” as Bucky works on deciphering the almost illegible scrawl.

_This note certifies that Clint Barton is medically sound to partake in strenuous and/or sexual activity._

Clint slants forward, and Bucky takes his mouth with a single-minded purpose: to pull as many beautiful, whimpering moans from his throat as he can. He presses his hands under Clint’s ass as he stands, supporting his weight easily. One hand he keeps in place, unable to shift it from the enticing curve of Clint’s ass, the other helps fumbling legs lock around his waist as he strides to the elevator. 

Bucky’s speed outpaces the elevator, and not one for wasting time, he pushes Clint up against the wall, impatiently, crushing what little space is left between them. His free hand traces the lines of Clint’s body, memorizing them, as their lips move together desperately. 

He doesn’t stop at the loud ding, just presses Clint through the widening doors, bodies still tangled together. Clint whimpers when Bucky pulls back, turning to find the button that will take them to Clint’s room, to his bed... where Bucky is going to take the pleasure Clint has given him and pour it out through his hands and mouth and body, making Clint moan and whimper and beg, and show him that sometimes, dreams really do come true.


	8. Where Enough Is Not The Same It Was Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint wriggles on the bed again, spreading and raising his arms in wordless request. “Ready to have my bones pressed up against yours?”
> 
> Bending into the invitation, Bucky revels in the embrace as he scoops Clint up and those strong arms wind around his neck. They lock together easily, comfortably, like perfectly aligned puzzle pieces slotting into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. I've decided to keep Bucky's retelling as M rated, rather than bumping it to E. If you are interested in the smutty fun times, feel free to bounce into Clint's head and check out Chapter 8 of [Dreaming Wide Awake](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21236108/chapters/51353203) if you haven't already -- though please heed the tags if you have smut allergies. 
> 
> ii. Though DWA gets the extra heat, DWA:R is getting a little extra heart. There will be one final, small epilogue coming soon.
> 
> iii. The corset it a comics reference. Perhaps not a great one, but it counts. \o/
> 
> iv. Unbeta'd. Proceed at your own risk.

“Would you just sit still?” Bucky admonishes Clint, affection softening the edges of his exasperation. 

Bucky’s teeth catch his lower lip as his focus sharpens. With the white foundation already laid down, a mistake now will cost them time they don’t have. Nat is, in all likelihood, staring daggers at the clock, plotting revenge at this very moment. He presses the kohl pencil back to Clint’s skin, filling in the dark hollows of the orbital sockets, the last step in his skeletal transformation.

“Easier said than done, Barnes, after what you just did to my ass.” Clint shifts on the bed again, pushing an exaggerated groan from his throat even as his lips curve up.

Memories of the many hours spent putting shared dreams to shame ignite flames in Bucky’s belly and burn over his skin, and it’s all he can do not to drop the pencil, push Clint back on to the bed, and spend many more hours taking him apart until nothing comes out of that smug mouth but broken whimpers and gasped pleas. _Again._

The heels of his boots dig into his ass as he shifts, seeking a reprieve from the increased tension of suddenly straining denim. Ignoring the flush dancing over his cheeks, thankfully hidden under a coating of green and black, he casts a critical eye over his artistic efforts.

Clint's eyes dance as they drop low, seeing the evidence of his words finding bullseye. Of course. But in a rare show of mercy, he changes tack. “So… am I acceptable?”

The monochrome palette makes Clint’s eyes a startling blue, staring at him with so much unguarded tenderness, that not for the first time, awe steals Bucky’s words, and all he can do is swallow roughly around the swell of emotion constricting his throat. He nods, rocks forward, and presses a kiss to the tip of Clint’s nose - the black smudging onto his own already dark lips - as he straightens. His words are soft when he finally finds them. “It’s as good as it’s gonna get, so let’s go with yes.”

“Given the circumstances, I’ll take it.” Clint wriggles on the bed again, spreading and raising his arms in wordless request. “Ready to have my bones pressed up against yours?”

Bending into the invitation, Bucky revels in the embrace as he scoops Clint up and those strong arms wind around his neck. They lock together easily, comfortably, like perfectly aligned puzzle pieces slotting into place. He sighs softly as Clint’s fingers tangle in his hair, twisting locks around lazy fingers. Bucky looks longingly at rumpled sheets strewn across the bed. Owing only to his need to stay true to his word - and Clint's - to attend Nat's party, his tenuously-held willpower endures, and he turns and starts for the door... though not without a sizable swell of disappointment.

. . .

“You should have just wrapped yourself in white lace if Bucky was going to be carrying you around all night. I could have cued up _The Bridal Chorus_ for your grand entrance.” Nat’s voice rings over from the bar as Bucky steps out of the elevator. His lips twitch at the words as he heads toward the line of fire. As far as first strikes go, it has fallen a little short, her words stirring possibilities rather than panic.

Shifting in Bucky's arms, Clint slips one arm free to gesture at the black fabric one-piece, embellished with stark white bones that clings to his body like a second skin. “I could have, but it would be a shame to hide such amazing bone structure.”  
  
Ignoring Nat's eye roll, Clint lets out a low, impressed whistle as he takes in the communal floor and Bucky has to stop himself doing the same. Black, orange, and purple decorations are overflowing around the room. Twinkling lights adorn the walls, glowing prettily, throwing flashing, ominous shadows that vanish as quickly as they appear, and the pool table is piled high with themed treats. Traditional Halloween, done with a darkly elegant twist, landing just this side of too much, is somehow perfectly _Natasha_.

Bucky lowers Clint onto the barstool he'd been perched atop during the disastrous night of drunken come-ons before turning to Nat. There aren’t many things in this world that scare him, but he is man enough to admit that an angry Natasha Romanoff is enough to give him pause. It doesn’t help that her costume is as dark as her mood seems to be - dolled up as Wednesday Adams, complete with a very realistic, very large knife.

“You’re late.”

Clint fidgets, his eyes darting from the blade, sharp point pressing into Nat’s index finger, spinning lazily, to her pinched lips and perfectly plucked, furrowed brows. Fighting to keep his lips even at Clint’s visible squirming, Bucky rubs a reassuring hand over his back. “Sorry, we--”

“It’s Bucky’s fault,” Clint blurts. He grimaces and turns panic-filled eyes, though apologetic, on Bucky.

The abject fear on Clint's face should not be so endearing, though, Bucky muses, he could have held out more than ten seconds before shoving him under the bus. “Your outstanding bravery is just one of the things that make you so attractive, Barton.”

“Uh…” The look of panic turns speculative as Clint obviously tries to decide whether to say thank you for being called attractive, or argue the implied cowardice.

Offering a contrite smile to Nat and accepting the two beers on offer, Bucky pops the caps with a vibranium thumb before handing one to Clint, and throwing himself on the wire. After all, his inability to relinquish the pleasure of Clint’s body is what had made them late in the first place. “Sorry we’re late. Clint wanted to be here earlier, but I insisted we wash up before coming.”

Clint’s thumb squeaks wetly as it slides through the condensation beading his bottle. He tips the beer to his lips and swallows, again and again, his throat working desperately like he’s trying to drown the smart ass remark Bucky knows is fighting to spill from his mouth. Bucky takes a long pull from his own bottle, watching Clint’s throat work, suddenly thirsty for more than just alcohol.

“Hey, Buck.” He turns as Steve’s voice floats over from the island of couches where the rest of the party guests - the ones that had arrived on time - have gathered. A moment later, Steve adds, “ _Barton_ ,” his voice filled with so much tween-girl _ooohing_ that Bucky would be sorely tempted to punch him if he were in range.

He runs his hand over Clint’s back one last time, soaking in the comforting heat radiating out at him, before drawing back reluctantly. Bucky knows he should feel a little guilty about leaving Clint to face Nat’s fury alone, but he’s mostly sure she won’t kill her best friend, and he has the distinct impression Clint could use a little decompression time. After one last rueful smile to Nat, he pivots and moves toward Steve.

Halfway to his target, Stark stomps past him, encased almost entirely in metal, open faceplate aside, looking like he had tried to recreate the Tin Man from _The Wizard of Oz_ from memory while drunk. Bucky presses his lips together, offers a curt nod, not breaking stride - knowing it’s always best to have a Steve-shaped buffer around before attempting communications in hostile territory.

Bucky flashes a smile at both Steve and Bruce, but saves his greeting for Sam, who, in typical Sam fashion, has his head reclined on the chair, snoring softly, oblivious to the party-goers around him - though his hand remains clamped around an empty beer bottle, being held aloft in spite of sleep.

Sinking onto the familiar couch opposite Steve, Bucky tries not to flush recalling the very different position he’d been in, right here, only hours before. Bringing his bottle to his lips, stalling for time enough to rein in his inappropriate reaction before Steve starts probing him about his time alone with Clint, he drains the rest of his beer, swallowing it down in four large gulps. Determined to try and steer the conversation into a neutral zone, he deposits the empty bottle on the table and nods to Steve's aqua and red vest and fez combo. They are paired with a small set of fluffy white wings that look like they'd been ripped from a stripper-angel costume, the elastic straps securing them straining over hulking shoulders. “You know, Stevie, that flying monkey costume would have looked cuter a hundred and forty pounds ago.”

The look on Steve's face sends a wave of nostalgia crashing over him, punk mode fully activated, the only thing missing is a back alley and a black eye. “You came as a zombie version of yourself, Buck. I don’t think you’re in the position to judge costumes.” The unspoken "jerk" hangs between them, drawing a fond smile from them both.

“You both look good. Anything is better than --” Bruce gestures to his Einstein costume, and hesitates before rising from the couch, his eyes lighting up at Natasha's approach.

“I thought you boys could use some refills,” Natasha declares as she swaggers forward, pressing cold bottles into eager hands.

Bruce accepts his with a smile and lifts it in mock salute. He nods toward the bar. "I think I should check up on the patient. Just make sure he hasn't suffered, uh, any further injuries." He throws an amused look in Bucky’s direction before shuffling away from the group, a hand lingering on Nat's shoulder as he passes.

Bucky motions to Steve, eager to course-correct the conversation. “So how did things go on the mission? Any problems?”

“Put another one in the win column. Cleared a few bad guys off the board.” Steve's shrugs. “It was a pretty standard op.”

Tony is busy prying metal plates off his body, having obviously realized the full extent of discomfort his costume choice has wrought, and not willing to suffer through it for the remainder of the evening, but snorts out a laugh as he drops the detached pieces onto the carpet behind the three-seater.

Bending to trap the empty bottles between dexterous fingers, Nat's eyes flick to Steve. “It was pretty far from standard, Rogers, and you know it.” She leans toward Bucky, mock-whispering, “Ask him about the corset, Barnes.” She winks and spins on her heel, her laughter trailing after her as she heads back to Clint.

Steve waves off Bucky’s raised eyebrow and shakes his head dismissively - though the flush winding its way up his neck is enough for Bucky to make a mental note to ask about it later - and reclines against a mostly-metal-free Tony, now settled on the seat next to him. “I’m more interested in how things went _here_. You look better. Well-rested.”

Tony’s eyebrow quirks up, the corner of his lips chasing after it as his head swivels toward Steve. “Unless that’s some kind of old-timey code for ' _well and truly rogered_ ,' Rogers, we may need to get your eyes tested, the serum may be wearing off.”

Bucky does his best not to bristle outwardly as Stark’s words and demeanor chafe over him like fine-grit sandpaper - not enough to cause damage, just severe irritation.

“ _Tony._ ” Steve's voice hardens on the name, issuing both a warning and reprimand in a single word, and appreciation courses through Bucky.

“Yeah, Stark, the adults are talking. Why don’t you go find something to blow up.” His best attempt to hide the contempt from his voice falls woefully short.

“ _Bucky._ ”

Gritting his teeth, Bucky eyes Stark reproachfully. Tony stares back, equally annoyed but suitably chastised, and not wanting to be the one to double down on Steve's anger, both remain quiet, an unspoken truce hanging heavy between them.

“Did you tell Barton how you feel about him?” Steve’s voice is soft, though Bucky notices the hard squeeze to Tony’s thigh. Seemingly understanding the unspoken cue, and for once following Steve’s lead without question or complaint, Tony turns his focus to the bottle in his hands, scratching at the label with a determined nail - the very definition of casual disinterest.

Turning his attention back to Steve, Bucky shrugs carefully, weighing his answer before murmuring, “I showed him.”

“ _Buck._ ”

Bucky stirs on his chair, flesh fingers twisting under metal ones. He _had_ shown him. _Repeatedly_. “He knows how I feel.”

Both men ignore Tony’s muttered, “Yeah, every inch.”

Disappointment rolls off Steve in waves and guilt sours Bucky's belly. It's only because of his best friend that he'd had the time alone with Clint to begin with. He waits, watching Steve’s lips purse the way they always do when he wants to say something but hasn't quite figured out how. Bucky leans back against the chair, putting on a show of easy patience though internally bracing himself, wary of what's to come.

Steve runs distracted fingers through his hair, pushing the too-long strands off his face three times before he finds his words. “I know it’s hard for you, Buck. I understand, _I do_. But one day you’re going to have to decide which is more important, love or fear. It’s nice to see you happy again, it's been too long..." he pauses, taking a deep breath before continuing cautiously, "I’d hate to see you lose the chance of a good future just because you can’t let go of a bad past.”

Unable to hold Steve’s imploring gaze, Bucky drops his own to the bottle in his hands, using considerable effort to relax his stranglehold on the glass lest it shatter in his grip. His stomach roils at the thought. He hasn’t said those words in so long. Not since… _before._ So many hard-earned lessons had been beaten and burned and forced into him, and they still cling to his mind, informing his thoughts and actions no matter how he struggles to shake them. Chief among them is that words have power, and whether it is ten words or three, the thought of someone having control over him again, to use his thoughts and feelings against him is enough to turn his skin cold.

A sharp bang echoes through the room like a shot. Bucky flinches, and jerks toward the stairwell door as Peter slips his backpack off his Spider-Man suit, letting it fall to the floor with a _thump_.

“Hi! Hello! Sorry, I’m late. I can only stay for a few minutes, I have a curfew," Peter calls, making a beeline for Bruce at the bar, his small form bouncing with excitement.

Bucky smiles despite himself. It wasn't until after the chaos at the airport that he'd learned to appreciate the kid’s energy and wonderment. In some very small way, Peter reminds Bucky of himself at that age, though the kid's penchant for finding trouble is definitely more reminiscent of Steve. Still, there's something innately affable about him, though his taste in mentors is questionable.

The slamming door is enough to finally rouse Sam, who snorts himself awake and blinks at Bucky. “Hey, man. When did you get here?”

“About five minutes before you started drooling on yourself.” Bucky trains the corners of his lips down, counteracting their impulse to jerk up as Sam scrubs at his face with the back of his hand, attempting to wipe away the non-existent drool. Appraising eyes dart over Sam’s outfit for the first time. “Couldn't afford a costume, Wilson?”

“What are you talkin' about? I’m _in_ costume.”

The army-green t-shirt and camouflage pants combination has Bucky’s eyebrow edging up in disbelief. “You wore that same thing last week. And the week before, and..”

Sam cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “Look, I get it. You were frozen by the time G.I. Joe’s came out, but trust me; this right here? Perfect replica - I mean, much sexier and anatomically correct, of course.”

Opening his mouth, then snapping it shut again, Bucky is saved from trying to find a suitable response as Bruce and Peter plant themselves on vacant cushions next to Sam, the kid's mouth working a mile a minute. “---and then, it blew up!” Peter finishes with a flourish, beaming at them.

“Very cool,” Bruce chuckles and claps Peter on the back in a proud uncle kind of way, and Bucky ducks his head to hide his grin.

His gaze flicks sideways, drawn to the two figures still at the bar. Well, one more than the other. Yearning takes root inside his chest and blooms until he’s overcome with the need to feel Clint’s warmth pressing against him again. Without conscious thought, he finds himself unfolding from the couch.

“Hey, Buck?”

Bucky, two steps toward the bar, stops and turns back to Steve, ignoring the knowing smile. “Yeah?”

“I love you.” The words ring true, but are not without a hint of challenge.

Shaking his head at his best friend as he continues on his initial course, Bucky calls over his shoulder, “Yeah, yeah, Stevie. You too.”

“So when’s the wedding?” Nat’s voice is sparkling with barely restrained laughter and Bucky finds himself wishing he'd wandered over a few minutes earlier.

“Whose wedding?” His hands settle on Clint’s shoulders as he jolts on the barstool. Dual temptations duel inside him - the urge to roll his eyes, and the desire wrap the archer in bubble-wrap. How someone can be so graceful in battle and so ridiculously clumsy in everyday life is going to keep him up at night. But as the familiar warmth of Clint's back passes into his chest, all other musings shrink in light of the sudden sense of _mine_ that flares in his mind. Bucky slides his hands over Clint's shoulder, following the contours of the muscular chest, crossing over and drawing him closer, feeling the steady thump under in his hands.

“Yours and Barton’s,” Nat continues, and it takes a moment for Bucky to re-gather the conversation threads. “It’s a thing two hot superhero types can do in these modern times, Barnes. And when it happens, I call dibs on being the _best_ Best Man.”

Bucky can't help but grin at the sheer size of Nat's competitive streak. “You may have to fight Steve for that title.”

Sharp excitement rearranges Nat's features as she pushes off the bar and lands gracefully. “I can take him.” Bucky watches her go, twirling the long black braids of the wig between nimble fingers as she saunters toward Steve.

Bucky laughs softly. “I didn’t mean right now.” He rubs small circles over the fabric-covered rise of Clint's chest, murmuring softly, “Having fun?”

Clint lolls against him, humming contentedly. “More now.”

The sensation of joy spreading through Bucky's body is still a relatively new one, and one he is coming to associate with the human disaster leaning against him. It's pleasant, sweet and thick like warm honey, and he much prefers it to the ice. “Thanks for bringing me as your plus one.”

Clint scoffs. “You were already planning on being here. You had your own invite.”

The low sound of consideration rumbles from his chest, reverberating into Clint’s. Being invited to the party is nice. Hell, it’s more than _nice_ , it’s reassuring, validating. When he had joined the Avengers at Steve’s behest, he hadn’t expected to make friends. He’d just wanted the chance to do some good, to try and make up for some of the bad the world had suffered at his hand. And though he knows he doesn't deserve it, if managing by some miracle to balance his red with black, maybe one day he could finally put some of his ghosts to rest. He hadn't dared to look or hope beyond that. But now, though still haunted, for the first time in so long, he finds himself able to look forward, to dream of a future instead of just running from the past. “True, but I wasn’t coming with _you_.”

“And how do you like _coming_ with me?”

Bucky can’t hold back the groan as his head falls onto Clint's shoulder, his philosophical musings of only a moment ago dissolving into lustful recollections. He turns his face and presses a kiss to the makeup-laden skin on Clint’s neck, branding him with a new black stain.

“Sorry, Buck, you make it too easy sometimes.” Clint twists to face him as his lips quirk up.

Bucky’s eyes drop to the inviting curve, just inches away. He wants to tip forward and claim that smug mouth, to lick the taste his name off Clint’s lips, but he restrains himself, sensing Clint is hovering around the fringe of something important.

Earnest eyes lock on his as Clint's chest swells. When it falls again, his words rush out on the pent up breath. “You know how I feel about you, right?”

Bucky nods, slowly, trying to predict where this particular train of thought is heading.

“I know you’re the strong, silent type. Dark and brooding is your default setting, I get it, but you haven’t really told me how _you_ feel.”

Bucky gnaws at his lip as Steve’s words echo inside his head, unease coiling at the base of his spine. He curves his fingers around Clint’s ear, brushing against the soft, short hair there, and trailing down to rest at his nape. “Do you _need_ me to tell you? Haven’t I shown you how I feel?” 

He brushes his thumb over the warm skin it rests on, watching Clint’s focus turn inward, red stains spreading across his cheeks. Tense shoulders unknit, and a smile plays on Clint's mouth as he leans forward, pressing their foreheads together. “Yeah, you have.” Bucky lets his eyes fall closed, the burgeoning knot in his gut uncoiling, feeling Clint's breath warm on his cheek.

Their quiet moment is broken by raucous laughter from the superhero-peppered couches. Bucky’s eyes drift, reluctantly, toward source to find Nat curling her legs around Steve, locking him in a hold that, for some reason, seems to delight both Bruce and Peter to the point of hysteria. Sam and Tony are sharing a look of trepidation, while Steve just looks genuinely distressed.

Bucky sighs heavily. Though party etiquette one-oh-one is not exactly his forte, he’s pretty sure staying huddled up in a couple and shunning the main gathering is considered a faux pas. He thinks longingly of Clint's bed, where there are no rules or distractions, only pleasure. He wants nothing more than to ask Clint to come with him, back to bed, to leave the world behind, but he opens his mouth and says instead, “You think we should go save Steve?”

Clint nods grudgingly. “I suppose it’s the least you can do, considering you set her on him in the first place.” In a well-practiced shuffle, Clint spins on his stool and looks up, waiting.

Bucky takes Clint into his arms, throws one glance toward the stairs, before strolling over to join their friends.

With Clint still wrapped in his arms, Bucky sinks onto the couch, carefully, before relaxing back into the plush cushions. His hands roam over Clint’s body, coming to wrap loosely around his waist. He could easily readjust, slide Clint off him and on to his own seat, but after the display they'd put on this morning, there's no point in pretenses. He rests his chin on Clint’s shoulder, breathing in the zesty citrus scent of their shared shampoo, and beneath it, something undefinable, something heady, something entirely Clint Barton.

“You know, I’m starting to think Katniss broke that foot on purpose.” The normally sharp edge to Tony’s voice is dulled by alcohol.

Nat makes a small sound of disagreement as she untangles her legs from around Steve. She tucks them under her ass and scoffs. “You really think he’d pick a fight with a car in the hopes he’d land a leather-bound consolation prize?”

Bucky appreciates the disbelief coating her words, grateful to have at least one person on the right side of common sense.

Sam, on the other hand, is planted firmly on the wrong side. “Nah, dude’s always falling all over himself. If you ask me, the accident _was_ an accident, but Barnes can’t resist that damsel in distress thing.”

“ _Sam._ ”

Bucky can’t help but smile at Steve, his fierce loyalty always landing him on whichever side Bucky is on, right or wrong.

“He has a point, Steve,” Natasha offers carefully, as if she can’t quite believe she's agreeing with Sam. “Bucky saved Rocket, and he’s saved you more times than either of you can probably count…”

“He tried to save Mr. Wilson in Germany!” Peter is practically vibrating on the couch, so excited to be able to join the conversation. Bucky finds himself vaguely surprised that the kid hadn't raised his hand first.

“What do you mean, _tried_ ?” Bucky's lips twist sourly. He _had_ saved Sam from the then-unknown spider-kid, even if only momentarily, it still counts.

“Hey. Whoa. I’m sitting right here,” Clint splutters, evidently reaching his threshold of friendly ribbing. Bucky tightens his hold, a silent show of support, and Clint amends, “ _We’re_ sitting right here. I am _not_ always tripping over myself, and Barnes does _not_ have a damsel kink.” Clint turns to him, a considering look on his face as his voice drops low. “Do you? Is that what the tape was really for?”

Bucky laughs lowly, remembering Clint’s expression when he had produced the tape and bag before their shower earlier. Only Clint would think tape is some kind of kink paraphernalia rather than a necessity for making a cast shower-proof.

Sam’s hands lift to cover Peter’s ears with the reflexes of a completely sober man. His face distorts into terse disappointment. “Hey, c’mon man, there are children present.”

With cheeks already pink from intoxication, Tony drains the rest of his beer and teases, “When’s the last time someone _other_ than you hurt you, Funny Bones?”

Clint's glare speaks volumes, but adds, “For your information, _Stark_ , it was, uh, um… huh.” He stalls and looks around at the faces staring back at him expectantly. When Clint’s eyes meet his, Bucky can’t hide his amusement. As much as he hates to admit it, and he really, _really_ hates it, Stark has a point. But the look of betrayal on Clint’s face fades quickly, his pinched lips morphing into a smug smirk. “This afternoon, actually.”

Bruce leans forward, chuckling, his interest in the conversation suddenly piqued. “Should we ask who? Or will that result in Bucky’s confirmed kills increasing by one?”

Clint's shoulders lift easily. “It’s all good. I doubt he’d put his own name on the list.”

Jolting off the backrest, Bucky frowns. “ _What?_ I hurt you? When?”

Clint shifts in Bucky's lap, ass rubbing against the zipper of his jeans, in what could be seen as a simple act of readjusting from an outside vantage point - an innocent gesture - but Bucky knows better. Dawning realization makes him throb. “ _Oh,_ ” he breathes.

Leaning close, Clint's breath ghosts over his ear, warm and soft. “Which reminds me, after the punishment you gave my ass this afternoon, the least you can do is kiss it better tonight.”

Bucky's whole body flushes hot, and he grits his teeth to stop himself from vaulting off the chair and hauling Clint forcibly upstairs. The air around him is thick, pressing down on him, making his head swim.  
  
Across from him, Steve's strangled choking noises break the sudden silence, followed swiftly by loud thumping as Tony's hand bounces off his back.

“Uh… Thanks for the party, it was great! But, um, Aunt May will ground me if I’m late!” Peter jolting to his feet, face as red as his suit, snaps Bucky's gaze to him, clearing some of the oppressive fog from his head.

Sam rises more slowly, with minimal wobbling thanks to his sleeping through most of the drinking, his head swiveling between Bucky and Steve before stopping in Clint’s direction with a furrowed brow. “I’m not sure what I just missed, but I think I’ll take the kid home and make sure I’m not here when it happens again.”

“You don’t have to. I’m fine, really. I can swing it.” Peter is hopping from foot to foot, glancing back toward the bright red exit sign above the stairwell door, but too well-mannered to just make a bolt for it.

Sam grabs Peter by the shoulders, gives a gentle shove in the direction of the elevator, and follows close behind. “Man, you’re my ticket out of here. Stop talking and grab that bowl of candy.”

Doing as he's told, Peter snags the overflowing purple candy dish, almost falling over himself to walk backward and wave as Sam all but forces him away from the couch. “Oh, uh, okay. Goodnight Mr. Stark, Cap, uh, Captain,” he stammers as he grabs his backpack with his free hand, “and Mr. Banner, Bucky, Natasha, Cli---” The elevator doors cut short the hasty good-nights.

The delighted smile on Tony's lips disappears as he turns his focus from the departing Peter to Clint, still draped over Bucky's lap on the couch. “So,” he scratches his head before making a vague circlular gesture toward the couple, “what are you guys, anyway?”

“What are _you_ guys, anyway?” Clint volleys back, shooting a pointed look in Steve's direction.

“What are you talking about? We’re not--” Tony, looking to Steve for support and finding narrowed eyes and pursed lips instead, falters. “not, ah, talking about us.”

Clint nods slowly. “Hmm. That sounds good.” He turns thoughtful eyes on Bucky. “ _Us_ . We’re a _us_. Right, Barnes?”

It does sound good. It sounds _perfect_. Bucky presses curved lips to Clint’s shoulder. “Right.”

Nat's laugh isn’t unkind, though it does contain a healthy dose of teasing. “As a _us,_ you might want to start calling Bucky by his first name.”

Not for the first time, Bucky curses his perfect recall as memories dance in front of his eyes. He rubs at the back of his neck, feeling his skin burning anew. His name on Clint’s lips had sent bliss speeding through him, sparking incandescent pleasure, lighting up every dark, secret place inside him at once. And like lightning striking sand, all the separate, fractured pieces of him had fused together, and in that moment he was no longer Sergeant Barnes, The Asset, or The Winter Soldier. Not wanted for what he could do, or give, or sacrifice, but for who he was, who he _is_ ... just _Bucky._

Awareness shines in Clint’s eyes and he smiles, throwing his words to Nat without looking away from Bucky. “Can’t get too carried away.” Bucky tightens his hold and Clint grinds discreetly against the rise of denim pressing up against him. Their thoughts, like their bodies, meeting in the middle. “And speaking of getting carried away, I think it’s time to call it a night. I need my beauty sleep.”

As strong arms reach up to reclaim his neck, Bucky takes the wordless urging and lifts from his seat, more than happy to take Clint to bed.

“Beauty sleep? There’s not enough hours in the -- _ow!_ ” Tony grumbles, rubbing his ribs, glaring at Steve. Changing tack, he huffs, “And what about you, Dawn of the Dead? How serious is this for you? Do I need to prepare paperwork for H.R.?”

Bucky glowers at Tony, satisfaction settling nicely in his chest as Tony wilts a little, shrinking back against Steve. His answer comes swift and sure. “For my part, I’m happy to take whatever he’s giving.”

“Well that answers the next question about pitching and catching quite succinctly,” Tony counters, ignoring Steve’s disapproving look.

Bucky grinds his teeth together as he eyes Steve’s not-so-secret, and not-so-subtle other half. No one can ever accuse Steve of being shallow - whatever he sees in Tony is buried deep, deep, _deep_ down.

“Why is everyone suddenly so interested in my love life, anyway?” Clint snaps, his body going rigid in Bucky’s grasp.

“Your _love_ life, Clint?” Nat’s voice matches her smirk.

Buoyed by alcohol, or perhaps lowered to their base instincts, Tony and Bruce turn to Clint, making high pitched _oohing_ that sets the tips of Clint’s ears aflame. It’s enough to spark flames of a more indignant nature in Bucky. “Yeah, _love_ life. _Our_ love life.” Bucky sets his jaw and puts his ex-assassin glower to good use, staring at each face below him until lips reset to their default positions.

Clint jerks his head up, blinking at Bucky as if trying to translate the words and coming up short. Bucky reaches up, metal glinting on stark white as he strokes Clint’s cheek. Arms tighten around his neck as Bucky brushes his lips against Clint’s. The tension melts from Clint, and he leans into the kiss, deepening it, only pulling away when Bucky nips at his tongue. Clint stares at him, gaze unreadable for a long moment before he shifts his attention to the faces of his friends, all turned in their direction. “So, my, uh--” Clint’s words dissolve into a strange garbled noise, and he clears his throat before swallowing visibly. His head notches higher, strain threading itself down his back, tightening against Bucky’s palm. “My… boyfriend---” Clint’s eyes flick to his and hold, waiting for his response.

 _Love hurts._ When Bucky had heard the words, he’d always assumed it was when love fades or dies, when it is lost. But now, seeing the uncertain hope shining out at him from those brilliant blue eyes, Bucky’s sure his heart is expanding, the immeasurable emotion an unstoppable force inside his chest, pressing outward against his ribs, making him ache with it. Clint wants _more_ , wants _him_ . _All of him_.

He nods, so slightly he isn’t sure Clint catches it, but then… Clint lights up like someone flicked a switch inside him, and he’s beaming, eyes crinkling as lips part and curve up, and Bucky’s breath catches in his throat.

Head held higher still - not defensively, but proudly - Clint's smile filters into his voice. “My boyfriend has to escort me to my room now. This ol’ skeleton’s bones are aching, and there’s one in particular that requires his utmost attention.”

Ignoring the catcalls and groans behind them, Bucky moves with purpose toward the elevator. Clint’s fingers thread through his hair, tugging him closer, and claiming his mouth - eager lips yielding to his, delivering delicious promises. Promises Bucky intends to collect in sweat-slicked skin, gasped moans, and curling toes. He heads for the rumpled sheets that have been patiently awaiting their return all night, knowing they won't be leaving until long after morning.


	9. Feels Like Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If you don’t drag your ass out here like the adult that you supposedly are, that door is going to need repairs.”
> 
> Clint’s huff carries through the door easily. “What is it with you and breaking my doors? You can’t just go around breaking things you don’t like.”
> 
> “I’m aware, as evidenced by the fact Tony’s face is still in one piece.” Bucky pulls himself to a sitting position, his patience flagging. “C’mon, Clint. Don’t make me fetch Nat.”
> 
> The resounding click of the lock is a point in Bucky’s win column --which is woefully sparse these days, given all Clint has to do is throw some pouty lips and sad eyes his way, and Bucky crumbles like one of Steve’s teacakes-- but the minute the door swings open, the mark threatens to slide right back off the board.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Unbeta'd. Proceed at your own risk. 
> 
> ii. This chapter is pretty much entirely fluff. Fluffy fluff, at that.
> 
> iii. This whole Bucky's POV fic went off the rails somewhere, but we've finally reached our final destination. For all of you that stuck around for the entire ride, I applaud and thank you, and I hope you consider it time mostly well spent. 
> 
> iv. I do have a follow up one shot planned for Valentine's Day in this universe, and then... who knows. Despite the off-the-railsness of this series, I do have a very soft spot for our matching twin disasters. Feel free to subscribe to the series if you're interested in keeping with up their exploits. :)

“We can reschedule.” The locked bathroom door doesn’t muffle the underlying whine in Clint’s voice.

Bucky’s groan disappears into the sigh of fabric and air rushing from pillows as he flops back onto the familiar softness of Clint’s bed. Though he still has his room in the tower, he has spent more nights in Clint’s than his own since Nat’s Halloween party, much to the annoyance of Stark’s rather sensitive ears.

It had been the cause of much consternation for Clint and amusement for Bucky, when three days after the party, a bed so ridiculously large that he’s pretty sure Stark had it custom made, with a frame tellingly devoid of springs, had replaced Clint’s old double. Bucky’s skin prickles as he remembers the many hours spent christening the new mattress that night. The day after, all-new soundproofing had been added to the walls, doubled up on the roof that separates Clint’s room from Tony’s floor above.

The memory brings mirth anew and mellows the exasperation in his voice as he tries to talk Clint off the ledge. Well, out of the bathroom. “We’re _not_ rescheduling. Tomorrow is Christmas, if you don’t go today, you’re gonna be stuck in that cast for at least another two weeks.” 

“I can deal with that.”

“The steady stream of complaints you’ve been spitting out for the past week would suggest otherwise.”

“Of course, I’ve been complaining. It’s been itchy, Barnes. Do you know how hard it is to have an itch you can’t scratch?”

Bucky knows plenty about how hard it is, as Clint well knows, but since their first night together, every itch had been met with plenty of scratching. 

“It’ll be okay. I’m a slow healer. My bones could probably do with another week or two sporting an unbreakable exoskeleton,” Clint wheedles, hopefully.

Bucky smiles at his boyfriend’s transparent attempt to stir his inner protectiveness to get his way. And, _oh_ , he’s not sure he’ll ever get used to the warmth that word unfurls inside him.

For reasons Bucky can’t quite grasp, Clint had become increasingly cagey and sullen as the date for his cast removal approached. It had culminated in a full-scale tantrum this morning, when he had stormed to the bathroom and locked the door, refusing to attend his appointment. 

“If you don’t drag your ass out here like the adult that you supposedly are, that door is going to need repairs.”

Clint’s huff carries through the door easily. “What is it with you and breaking my doors? You can’t just go around breaking things you don’t like.” 

“I’m aware, as evidenced by the fact Tony’s face is still in one piece.” Bucky pulls himself to a sitting position, his patience flagging. “C’mon, Clint. Don’t make me fetch Nat.”

The resounding click of the lock is a point in Bucky’s win column --which is woefully sparse these days, given all Clint has to do is throw some pouty lips and sad eyes his way, and Bucky crumbles like one of Steve’s teacakes-- but the minute the door swings open, the mark threatens to slide right back off the board.

Clint is standing in the doorway, naked. He slides one arm up the doorframe and leans against it seductively, jutting his hip out and arching his neck to the side. “Don’t be a spoilsport. There are so many better things we could be doing than going to a doctor’s appointment. Hell, we could play doctor ourselves. What d’you say, Bucky? You wanna bend me over and make me cough?” Clint’s soft tone has its intended firming effect. 

Dragging his eyes up Clint’s body to his face takes considerable effort, and Bucky can feel the muscle ticking in his clenched jaw at the smirk he finds there. _Bastard._ The problem with dating an archer is that they know all the sweet spots, and their aim is always true. He stands stiffly and walks to the door, removing himself from temptation’s grasp. “Five minutes, Barton,” Bucky calls in a strangled voice over his shoulder. “If you’re not dressed in five minutes, I will take you to your appointment dressed in nothing but your cast. It _is_ getting pulled off today,” Bucky turns and grins at Clint, “and if you stop being an ass about it, you may be, too.”

Clint’s whining plea of his name follows Bucky through the door.  
  


. . .  
  


“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” 

A strange shadow darkens Clint’s face as he stands outside the hospital, staring down at his two boot-clad feet planted firmly on the sidewalk. He lifts and rolls his ankle experimentally and shrugs. 

Bucky nudges at Clint’s chest with his shoulder affectionately. “You can scratch to your heart’s content now.”

“Now that I can reach it, it isn’t itchy anymore.” Clint’s lips twist and Bucky has the distinct impression he’s talking about more than the ankle, but he doesn’t push. These past few months have taught him that patience is a virtue when it comes to Clint and one that is always rewarded - if he waits long enough.

Clint’s mouth opens but closes again without a word, lips returning to their contemplative side-twist. He takes a deep breath through his nose and shakes his head like he’s a magic eight ball, trying for a different answer to the questions rattling around his head. 

The shadow in his eyes finally clears as he reaches for Bucky’s hand, his lips curving up as he locks their fingers together. “You know, I was thinking I really should buy Wanda a little something.” 

Bucky lets himself be tugged forward, into the crowd of people bustling down the sidewalk, the imminent threat of Christmas flooding the street with warm bodies bundled up against the cold. His own gloved hand squeezes Clint’s. “You should, huh? Did you draw her name for the secret Santa exchange? Because the keyword in that is _secret,_ Barton.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “You don’t say? I can neither confirm or deny my giftee, but she deserves something nice. Without her, I never would have realized how completely, totally, utterly gone for me you are. I mean, I should have twigged, I _am_ irresistible --” 

Bucky’s lips twitch as he fights to keep them straight. “And modest, too.”

“-- but it might have taken me a lot longer to figure it out without her help. I’m just not sure what’s the appropriate gift to say _thank you for giving me weeks of wet dreams and a boyfriend._ Some flowers? A fruit basket? Or maybe something for her closet that isn’t bright red,” Clint muses. “Thoughts?” 

“I think if you want to give a card that says that, you’re going to have to make it yourself,” Bucky chuckles.

“Yeah, good point. Flowers it is. One of those big fancy bouquets with a balloon and a teddy bear. It’s really the least we can do.”

“Oh, it’s _we_ now?”

Clint wraps his free hand over Bucky’s arm, tugging him closer, murmuring, “Mmhm. For as long as you’ll have me.”

Leaning into the embrace, Bucky places his hand over Clint’s and lets himself be guided toward the florist on the corner, knowing whatever they pick out as a token of thanks for Wanda will never come close to repaying the gift she had inadvertently given him. 

  
. . .

  
Steve eyes the metallic gold envelope in front of him warily. He shoots Tony a look before carefully unsticking the seal, and slides out the contents: a glossy pamphlet with a small scrap of red, white, and blue fabric taped to the top. He pulls on the material gingerly. The tape gives way with a pop of adhesive, and the American flag speedo snaps up like a rubber band before dangling from his pinched fingers. Steve frowns at the skimpy swimwear before turning his attention to the brochure. “The Bahamas?”

Beside him on the overstuffed loveseat, Tony grins. “Well, would you look at that. It seems your Secret Santa thinks you need a trip to a sunny place to put some color in that pretty Irish skin. And your tan lines with that suit are going to be delightful,” Tony’s voice slides from his throat as his hand slides over Steve’s thigh.

Steve’s cheeks fill with color. “Were you by chance my secret Santa, Tony?”

“I call foul,” Bucky scoffs from the couch opposite. He turns his head slightly in Clint’s lap, enjoying the calloused fingers currently raking through his hair. “The limit was meant to be twenty bucks, Stark.”

“I own the island and the plane taking us there. The thong was seven dollars, and the printout was DIY. All things considered, I’ve been exceedingly thrifty.”

“You can't call it do it yourself if you don't actually do it yourself, Tony.” Wanda calls from her position, cross-legged on the floor between the couches, steaming mug of hot chocolate in her hands. At Bucky’s raised eyebrow, she smiles. “He didn’t pay me for my troubles, so I guess he’s still technically under the limit.”

“Well, he paid me a grand to switch giftees with him,” Sam’s voice rings from behind the couch as he fishes a pretty, red-foil wrapped present out from the branches of the towering pine that is scraping the roof of the communal floor of the tower.

“Tony!” Steve sighs disapprovingly, and Bucky almost feels a little bad for Tony. He’s been on the end of that tone more times than he’d like to admit, and it never ends well.

“What?” Tony’s voice is mock outrage. “That doesn’t count. I didn’t spend it _on_ you. Secret Santa Loophole. Completely acceptable.”

“Incoming!” Sam calls as he tosses the box he’d manage to fish free from the tree at Tony. Steve drops the thong into his lap and catches the gift reflexively before handing it to Tony, who plants a kiss on Steve’s cheek as he takes the gift.

Bucky can’t help but smile at the open display of affection. His relationship isn’t the only one to bloom during the past few months - the not-so-secret Steve and Tony thing has become not secret at all, and he’s never seen his best friend happier. 

Tony rips at the paper like a five-year-old before lifting the box from the mess. “Headphones?”

“Noise-cancelling headphones. The very best twenty dollars can buy,” Wanda offers with a knowing smile.

Bucky laughs as above him, Clint groans. “We are _not_ that loud. No louder than the two of you. _Oh, Captain,_ ” Clint breathes, his low tone ending in a drawn-out moan - a solid impersonation of Tony - and Bucky laughs harder as Tony balls up the wrapping paper and pegs it toward Clint, turning the same shade of pink as Steve.

“Alright, boys, me next.” 

Bucky reluctantly lifts his head from Clint’s lap and pulls himself to a sitting position. Turning, he watches as Nat plucks her gift from the branches of the tree before perching herself up on the back of the couch beside Clint, swinging her legs to dangle down over the back of the seat. She slices one perfectly manicured nail under the triangle fold and lifts the tape, opening the paper, and slides out the dark picture frame from within. She stares down at the wonderfully rendered portrait of herself and Bruce that Bucky knows is staring up at her. He’d accidentally walked in on Steve, wrapping it last night. 

She trails her nails over the glass, staring down at it for a long moment, before pressing the frame down next to Clint, sliding off the couch and moving across to wrap her arms around Steve. His flush deepens as Nat places a kiss on his cheek and murmurs, “Thank you, Santa.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck when Nat retakes her seat beside Clint, cradling the frame in her arms, but the small, proud smile stays fixed in place on his lips. 

“This one is for you, and Santa says to open it quickly and don’t shake it,” Sam declares as he hands a black shoe box, complete with seven small round holes in the top, to Wanda.

Cracking one corner open, she looks inside and squeals delightedly. She lifts the lid the rest of the way up and reaches a hand in to extract a small, fuzzy creature. 

“Sam?” Clint draws out slowly. “What is that?”

“It’s a hamster. I had one when I was a kid, they’re great,” Sam answers, ignoring Nat’s snort of laughter. “You may forget, what with her saving the universe alongside the adults in spandex, and the, you know --” Sam makes vague swooshing gestures with his hands “-- but she’s still a kid. A hamster is an age-appropriate gift.”

“It’s great, Sam, but why is it bright red?” Steve’s voice is riding a strange line between amusement and concern.

Sam grins like that’s the best part of his gift, and judging by the rapt look on Wanda’s face, Bucky isn’t so sure it isn’t. He settles back against the couch, propping his feet up on the coffee table next to his gift from Santa --a foot tall lego version of himself, complete with a tiny Red Wing - and shrugs. “Koolaid. It’ll turn white again when you wash it… I think. Maybe pink. Anyway, it seemed appropriate.”

Wanda cradles the small animal in her cupped palm, using her index finger to pet its head gently, and beams at Sam. “I’ve never had a pet. Thank you, Sam, I love him.”

“Whoa, hold up, wait, no. I’m sorry, but there’s a no rodents policy in effect at the tower.”

“Tony, don’t be a Grinch. It’s Christmas.” Steve slides his arm around Tony’s shoulders and pulls him close. “Besides, how much trouble can it be? You’re harder to look after than a hamster, and we keep you around.” 

“Charming, Rogers. But I’m not likely to be found curled up in a cereal box, though, am I?”

“Be honest, Stark, you would if you could fit,” Clint shoots back with a smirk.

Natasha swings off the couch and lands on her toes, shifting her weight to avoid the hamster now scurrying around on the floor, encased in a glowing red ball of energy. 

“Alright, last two. And I think you should open them at the same time,” Nat says with a smile that’s far too innocent-looking to actually be innocent. 

Two flat parcels come flying toward the couch, and Clint plucks them out the air, of course, and tosses the silver parcel in Bucky’s direction. Bucky’s eyes narrow on the ‘B.B’ scrawled in purple sharpie, recognizing Clint’s handwriting, before darting to the purple parcel he’d wrapped last night, currently resting in Clint’s lap. He plucks at the tape on his gift distractedly, watching Clint rip into his own. The color drains from his boyfriend's face before he doubles over, laughing. 

“Open yours, Barnes,” Clint manages between bursts of laughter, lifting the sweater Bucky had bought him into view. 

Bucky peels back the paper, his eyes edging wide as he takes in the black, white, and green sweater. It has a velcro target on the front with three fuzzy balls sticking to it, ‘You Miss You Drink!’ proudly displayed around the target. The _exact same_ one that Clint is holding up against his chest. They’d bought each other the same gift, which could only mean…

Bucky glowers at Nat. 

Somehow knowing he’d drawn Clint’s name from the pot, she had come to him with the perfect gift idea, assuring him Clint would love it. Which by all accounts, she hadn’t been wrong, but still...

“Aw, how sweet. You're doing the matchy-matchy couple thing.” Nat’s perfectly painted red lips twitch up as Bucky’s pull down.

“ _Romanoff._ ”

Nat is spared Bucky’s wrath as Clint’s head pops through the neck hole of his sweater, and he reaches out toward him, fuzzy spheres in hand. “Wanna play with my balls, Barnes?” 

Bucky laughs despite himself, taking the balls on offer. He tips forward, pressing all three to the center of the target on Clint’s chest as he takes his prize from Clint’s mouth, resolving to always listen to Nat’s gift suggestions from here on out.  
  
  
. . .

Clint presses a present into Bucky’s hands and takes two steps back from the bed, looking down at him nervously. “I didn’t want to give it to you in front of everyone. Just in case.” 

Perched on Clint’s bed, Bucky turns over the small gift in his hands. Clint has hand-wrapped it in purple paper, taping the ends together with a bandaid. Smiling at the sheer _Bartonness_ of it, he removes the paper carefully --intending to tuck it away in his notebook for safekeeping, later-- to reveal a matchbox. Pushing one finger against the tray carefully, he slides it open, and his smile falters, confusion pulling at his eyebrows. “It’s a key,” Bucky says slowly, picking it up and turning it around in his fingers. 

“It’s, ah, symbolic. You know for...” Clint gestures toward the door. “If you break any more locks, I think Stark’s going to start charging you. I had JARVIS add your biodata to my room lock. This way, you can come and go as you please. If you still want to, I mean. No pressure.” Clint’s voice is oddly hesitant.

“ _If_ I still want to?” 

Clint shrugs.

“Clint?”

“I just -- I keep thinking about what Sam said at Nat’s party…” 

Memories of the Halloween party burst brightly in Bucky’s mind, but he can find nothing that would account for Clint’s sudden doubts. “Which was?”

“Just, uh, the damsel in distress thing. If now that I’m fixed, and you don’t have to carry me around and play nursemaid, if you lose interest, it’s okay, I get it. For what it’s worth, I _am_ likely to fall over again and break something else sooner rather than later because I mean, have you met me? If you do have a damsel kink then I’m pretty much your perfect significant other, I’m kind of a human disaster. It’s amazing that I can walk and chew gum at the same time, uh, well, I haven’t actually tried to do that, but I’m pretty sure---”

Bucky lurches forward and catches Clint’s wrist and reels him in as he rocks back onto the bed. He tugs him down and dams Clint’s stream of anxiety with his lips, licking every trace of doubt from his mouth until the only thing spilling from his throat are soft, happy sounds. When he pulls back, Bucky takes in the flush dancing over Clint’s cheeks with satisfaction. 

“Is that why you didn’t want to remove the cast? You thought I’d lose interest?” Bucky is torn between disbelief and amusement.

Clint rubs his hand over his nape and shrugs. “Might have had something to do with it.”

“I don’t think that’s how these things are supposed to work. Granted, I’m no expert at relationships but, I, uh --” Bucky trails off, the realization he’s never actually had a real relationship suddenly catching up to him.

Decades ago, with the threat of war hanging over his head, he hadn’t wanted to get too deep, to leave someone alone, waiting on him to return… just in case. Leaving his family and Steve, with the possibility of never returning, of passing into memory and stirring pain with no way to ease it was burden enough for his heart. 

And just as well, as it turned out. Some small part of him had expected the war to claim his life, and though his life had not been forfeited as expected, it had withered away with time and circumstance until the ends were the same, regardless of means. 

But now, things have changed. 

“The first time I saw you,” Bucky starts slowly, “I had no idea what a walking disaster you were. If looking after someone is what got me going, I would have been chasing after Steve. I swear, he never went one day without ending up on the wrong side of a fist or worse.” Bucky grins and catches Clint’s fingers with his. “The feelings I have for you aren’t because I needed to take care of you, I take care of you _because_ of my feelings for you. Because I --” Bucky breaks off again, his heart suddenly hammering painfully in his chest.

After the seemingly impossible task of putting himself back together again, he hadn’t been eager to lose his heart so soon after losing his mind. The thought of someone taking a piece of him is enough to send all too familiar fingers of ice creeping down his spine. 

But staring at Clint, awareness crystallizes, sharp and clear: Clint hasn’t taken anything from him that isn’t given willingly, and his own heart, battle-scarred and frozen as it is, is not close to a fair trade for everything Clint has given him in return.

A swell of emotion rises inside him, and all of his defensive walls, carefully built and maintained through the decades, wash away. Suddenly he’s hanging on to control by his fingertips, for reasons he no longer knows. Gazing into those beautiful blue eyes above him, he finally lets go.

“I’ve fallen for you,” Bucky blurts, and then he _is_ falling, his stomach lurching into his throat, fear curling around the base of his spine, waiting to hit the ground. Waiting for the pain that always comes from losing a part of himself...

...but this time, Clint catches _him_. 

Clint launches himself at Bucky, laughter peeling from his lips as they tumble back onto the mattress. Staring down at him, Clint smiles, softly brushing the tendrils of hair from his face, the feather-light touches leaving tingling trails in their wake. “About time, Barnes. I’ve fallen so hard for you, I’m kinda surprised I haven’t broken something.” Clint threads their fingers together, curling tight and warm and safe.

Bucky wraps his arms around Clint’s back, and with courage borne from the giddy happiness swirling in his chest, he leaps again. “So, about this _'coming and going as I please'_ thing. What if I don’t want the going?”

From his position flush against Bucky’s body, Clint grinds his hips in lazy circles. “Why, Bucky, are you trying to tell me you just want me for the _coming_?”

Bucky folds his legs up and around Clint’s ass, locking his ankles - and Clint - in place. The need to know the answer momentarily eclipsing the want sparking through his body. “What would you say if I said I wanted to stay here with you? All the time.”

Clint stops trying to grind against him, his face turning serious. “Are you asking if you can move in with me, Barnes?”

“You’re the one that gave me the key.”

A smile splits his lips before Clint lowers his head to nip at the sensitive skin under Bucky’s jaw, chuckling at the sharp intake of breath. “I’d say, do you wanna go get your toothbrush and your all-black wardrobe now or after a good two or three hours of naked celebrating?”

Bucky doesn’t even try to hold back the low moan that rises in his throat. “Definitely after.” He presses his ankles to Clint’s ass, urging him closer, locking them tighter together. “And now all your limbs are working, I think it’s about time you did some of the work, Barton.”

“Hey, hey, I do plenty of the work. It’s not my fault your super soldier stamina has me wrecked and halfway to unconsciousness before you’re halfway done.”

“Hmm, you love it.”

“I love _you_.”

It’s funny how the three little words Bucky had been so scared of, now feel so wholly inadequate. They can’t express how much he loves the strong curve of Clint’s jaw, the sparkling blue of his eyes, and the faint taste of coffee that always lingers on his lips. The fast wit and slow blooming smile that sets his heart fluttering in his chest. The way all it takes is a single look to ignite twin flames of lust and bliss that burn bright enough to keep the ice at bay. Or, the way Clint wraps his arms around him and presses soft kisses to flesh and metal both, just because he can. 

Bucky cups Clint’s jaw and brushes his thumb over a flushed cheek tenderly, knowing words are small in the face of such overwhelming emotion. Still, what weight and power they have over him, he will gladly give to Clint. After all, the one who stoked forgotten embers deserves to feel the warmth they bring. 

“I love you, too.”


End file.
